


The Howler

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel (Comics), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - "Logan" Fusion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF John, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, M/M, Major Depression, Major Illness, Mutant Powers, Post-Reichenbach, Survival, Unreliable Narrator, Weapon X Project
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-09-16 19:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9286589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “It's thymoma. CT scans have revealed a necrotic mass in your anterior mediastinum. The condition is advanced. We will schedule you for a surgery a week from today. Your first chemotherapy session starts tomorrow, so that we have a better chance at extracting the tumor if it gets small enough. I am sorry.”He has seen too much, felt too much, and walked away from too many battles, surviving unscathed. In his chaotic and disingenuous mosaic of experiences that encapsulate his essence as a human being, he never really expected having to deal with the emotional and mental consequences of outliving everyone else that he loved and cherished. The universe prefers symmetry and balance in all domains of life, after all. The universe thought it an unfair trade-off, to have allowed him to live off the lives of the deceased. The next time that he fell, he promised himself, he wouldn't fight it anymore.He didn't.





	1. Neurodegenerative

**Author's Note:**

> ** PLEASE READ THIS NOTE BEFORE PROCEEDING WITH THE CHAPTER! DISREGARD THIS AT YOUR OWN PERIL! **
> 
>  
> 
> WARNING: Some paragraphs in this chapter contain highly sensitive content regarding a fictional character's suicidal ideation, suicidal thoughts, morbid fascination with death and related issues with the character's psychological well-being. As indicated in the tags, this story has a lot of dark elements and themes that will go into the construction of the mood and the theme of the plot. IF you are in a delicate and sensitive situation with regards to your mental health and well-being, I STRONGLY advise you to immediately reconsider your decision to read this chapter and going through with the story. While I do try to keep such topics and their associated emotions to a moderate level, please note that it is your first and foremost priority to attend to your own well-being first. Should you decide to abstain from reading this story due to the reasons mentioned above, I sincerely apologise for any potential discomfort this may have caused. 
> 
> With that said, assuming you have read through the above notice and decided to proceed, you have the green light. Proceed.

**_A man doesn't have time._ **   
**_When he loses he seeks, when he finds_ **   
**_he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves_ **   
**_he begins to forget._ **

**_And his soul is seasoned, his soul_ **   
**_is very professional._ **   
**_Only his body remains forever_ **   
**_an amateur. It tries and it misses,_ **   
**_gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,_ **   
**_drunk and blind in its pleasures_ **   
**_and its pains._ **

**_He will die as figs die in autumn,_ **   
**_Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,_ **   
**_the leaves growing dry on the ground,_ **   
**_the bare branches pointing to the place_ **   
**_where there's time for everything._ **

* * *

 

**[[THEME SONG OF THE CHAPTER]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kcihcYEOeic) **

* * *

The lacklustrous, grey sheen of the river water hungrily lapped at the dry, silty surface of the grainy ground underneath his weathered shoes, the waves oscilatting as it simultaneously retreated and advanced into the shoreline. The overbearing, watchful presence of the darkening cerulean skies overhead hovered around him in a manner reminiscent of a protective sibling, and despite the fact that the phenomenon he is referring to is merely nothing more than an abstract term assigned to an observable entity, it nevertheless promoted a semblance of an amiable companionship; non-judgemental, silent. The soothing tranquility oscilatting through the vast space coiled around him tightly, reaching out to him and wandering off with small pieces of his internal burden, as if their very nature compelled them to seek him out and soothe his fractured wellbeing.

  
With each absent and monotonous thud of his soled feet digging into the sand with each set of strides that felt like looping into a series of endless repeats, the taunting and mocking voices of Father Time faded into the distance, its echoes and jeers blending seamlessly into the background with the calm, non-judgemental murmurs and humming of the Thames river. Despite the deadening weight of his upper torso and limp arms, his feet and strides still possessed the same tenacity and persistency, ever still on the search for the missing jigsaw pieces to his fractured world.

It had been years since any sign of higher cognitive processing activity has been witnessed in his prefrontal neocortex, along with other areas of his brain hemispheres that were once associated with a creature of high intelligence. Now, the only remaining evidence that could theoretically point to his living status was the persistent and stubborn refusal of his hindbrain to cease all biological functioning. It was the only remaining sign of his traitorous biology’s refusal to succumb to physical death - the only obstacle in his path remaining that he hasn’t managed to muster the courage to conquer, as of yet. Once, he would’ve laughed scornfully at the irony of the saying that “cat’s have nine lives”, after drawing bitter parallels between the infamous idiom and his own circumstances.

Once, was the keyword. Nowadays, it was difficult to have anything thrown at his face that was strong enough to penetrate through the dense layers of frigid winter that has engulfed his entire world. The endless blizzard storms has rendered him numb, always defaulting into a trance-like state.

  
“Thymoma. CT scans have revealed a necrotic mass in your anterior mediastinum. The condition is advanced. We will schedule you for a surgery a week from today. Your first chemotherapy session starts tomorrow, so that we have a better chance at extracting the tumor if it gets small enough. I am sorry,” were the words that have been relayed to him last week.

  
It was hardly enough to stop him from doing the Work, however. And it was barely strong enough to penetrate through the haze - the brain fog - that has remained his steadfast companion for the last few years. The newly surfaced logical part of his identity told him that death was not a cycle that any living organism could ever escape. That part of him that existed solely for the Work - the work that never begged to be stopped, even after years of his ‘absence’ - shrugged it off, as if it was nothing more than a parasitic tick that conveniently clung on to his skin.

  
The world may have lost a consulting detective, but that doesn’t necessarily have to correlate to the fact that the Work - the Work - must stop altogether. There were many people out there that relied on the pragmatic results that came from the Work, and for another reason that may be seen as surprisingly selfish and astonishing to the people he once associated with, he discovered years ago that he actually enjoyed the Work. The mental challenges, the frustration, the adrenaline - he relied on this addiction to feel alive, and he would be damned if this one thing thought it was enough to throw him off the tracks.

  
There would be no dignity - no pride to be held - by spending the rest of his remaining days bedridden, passersbys gawking and lying to his face about how he looks - how good he looks - and how he’s getting better. He’ll be damned if he allowed himself to be relegated to that situation, because damn it, what people never realised is that life is worth more living on the edges beyond your comfort zone. And he’s been damn good at keeping himself beyond the borders that would’ve sucked him back in to the world of complacency and boredom and nothingness in the last three years. Frankly, he’s afraid - oh so deathly afraid, frightened - of even thinking of what would happen if he stepped back from the place that he’s been betting his own life on for the past years.

If it came down to it, if all impossible things - the improbable ones - did come to fruition in the cruelest of ways (since Fate was an ass just like that, a psychopathic entity that played and pulled the strings of humanity just to see the infinite number of ways that they could dance to its bidding), he would prefer shooting himself instead. The deadly tendrils of nothingness, of inactivity, of boredom, facing the meaninglessness of his life - he’s certain he couldn’t handle that kind of existential crisis anymore.

  
He has wondered, sometimes, at the frightening level of ease at which a person can suddenly evaporate from their mortal existence. The ease of the act, the ease of the deed. It may be, he thinks, the greatest mystery of life he has not been exposed to and solved as of late.

His feet pulled him to a stop beside the shoreline as his mobile vibrated in the back pocket of his slacks. Reaching over, he swiped his thumb against the screen, accepting the incoming call. The mobile beeped in confirmation as he raised it to his ear. “Do you have something for me?” he questioned in a bland tone.

  
_“You’ll love this one. It’s your classic locked room mystery. Come over to 427 Park Lane. I’ll make it worth your while,”_ Lestrade offered.

  
“I may have improved in the last few cases that you sent my way, but you need to keep in mind that my specialty is not in deducing minute details and inferences from the crime scene,” he exhaled long-sufferingly, plunging his right hand into the front pocket of his slacks. “Unless you have witnesses or suspects, I can’t guarantee anything.”

  
“Well, you say you ‘can’t guarantee anything’, but the fact that you’ve delivered me more reliable results than anyone else in the last few years clearly shows that you’ve got the aptitude, John. I don’t need you to be...like him, you know. I just need someone that brings me closure on these cases,” the Inspector replied, in what he suspected was a ‘gentle tone’. “And to be frank with you, you’re the next best thing. You may not see things in the same way, but it doesn’t mean that you can’t reach that point just because you didn’t start off on the same level as him. You need to stop underselling yourself, John.”

  
A distant flash of annoyance pricked his gut. “Do you have suspects for me, or not?”

  
The detective sighed. “We found a witness, and no suspects yet. Come on over. Let’s get this sorted out, yeah? Look, John, if you want -”

  
“I’m coming over, and no thanks,” he interjected. “I am busy. Have work to do tonight.”

  
After a few moments of resigned silence, the Inspector replied in a more subdued tone. “Alright, John. See you soon. Take care, alright?”

  
He ended the call. No response was needed.

* * *

Lestrade lied. It wasn't a bloody locked room mystery at all.  _At all_.

“Okay, I have no bloody clue how you came to that conclusion,” the Inspector exclaimed, his long-sleeved arms thrusted into the air perpendicularly with respect to the ground. Standing opposite Lestrade from across the room, he thrusted his hands into the front pockets of his slacks, jaw clenching and molars grinding. “This man - this man - actually killed his friend? A friend he claimed to be quite close with in the last decade, a friend he supposedly treated and regarded like a brother, a friend he cherished so much that he practically called off the loan that he gave him when his friend’s gambling ventures went out of hand?”

This was easy. Too easy - in fact, it was barely a four out of ten in terms of difficulty. It was not difficult to see the connections, at all. The sensory information that he catalogued was rigorously and systematically categorized and filed away in the compartments of his brain attic, by methods and techniques used to such a large degree that they have merely become an extension of his own self. Whereas Lestrade and his little band of pseudo-detectives would have exasperatingly declared a case of this type to be a handful of dead ends (and to be honest, his old self would have been tempted to feel like that too, but the point is, he isn’t that person anymore), his new way of thinking and reasoning only opened more proverbial doors of opportunities that led to more possibilities that would have adequately explained his own observations and hypotheses.

This was another aspect about the Work that he never really discussed at length; namely, the surprising amount of ease and accuracy at which he could come to conclusions. The glaring details and evidence at hand, it surprised him greatly when he finally got to experience first-hand the astonishing depth of cluelessness and inexperience that others demonstrate in the face of these phenomena. Even though he never really labelled outright the proper term encapsulating the foundation of his methods and philosophy underlying his thought processes, John eventually discovered the name of it - abductive reasoning. And like anyone else (and really, principle of least action often guarantees the best results, seriously), a shallow input into the Google search bar yielded the following definition, sourced from _everyone’s_ favourite quick-info resource, Wikipedia:

 

 

 

 

> Abductive reasoning (also called abduction, abductive inference or retroduction) is a form of logical inference which goes from an observation to a theory which accounts for the observation, ideally seeking to find the simplest and most likely explanation. In abductive reasoning, unlike in deductive reasoning, the premises do not guarantee the conclusion. One can understand abductive reasoning as "inference to the best explanation".

  
Yes, it was _obvious._

 

But on the bright side, the  _interestingness_ was definitely an eight out of ten.

The wine collection?  _Clever_. 

Tilting his to the side in mock consideration, he nodded curtly in confirmation. “Yes, he’s the perpetrator. Didn’t you see it? The victim died of arsenic poisoning, but even before that, you were already ready to conclude that he died of alcohol poisoning. But, it wasn’t his ex-girlfriend that carried out the deed, regardless of the victim’s history of promiscuity. Both of them had a motive; the victim’s friend with his gambling debt, and his ex-girlfriend’s grudge and anger. However, the ex-girlfriend was in a completely different location in the time of the victim’s death, and even then, she has witnesses confirming her alibi. The victim’s a heavy drinker, certainly, but surely it takes a lot more alcohol to kill oneself if you are really desperate to go out like that, isn’t it?”

  
The Inspector sighed, bowing his head as he rubbed his forehead in fatigue, eyes closing as he exhaled sharply. “Alright, I see it. You make a good point there, we missed that one. But even then, why say he died of arsenic poisoning? It was clear that the autopsy showed that the victim showed high levels of blood alcohol before he died. Why arsenic poisoning, if not for the lethal amounts of alcohol in his system?”

  
Obvious.

  
“The arsenic levels in this wine brand was abnormally high, even for federal standards*. The victim was a heavy drinker - he developed this coping mechanism as a means of dealing with stressful events - therefore shouldn’t it be obvious that the murder weapon was his wine? He recently just came home from a vacation from California - but not before he got the call abroad from his then-girlfriend saying that she wanted to call off the relationship - and thus, of course he would’ve bought home a large amount of his favourite wine brands at this chance and got himself piss drunk when he came home. His friend - the perpetrator - might have ‘forgiven’ the debt the victim owed him, but nevertheless, it was clear that our perpetrator was the only other person with exclusive access to his dead friend’s wine cabinet,” he explained, struggling to remain patient. “Nevermind the fact that there was no sign of breaking and entering even days before his return, which lead me to conclude that the murder was carried out by his friend. They shared the flat together, his friend had exclusive access to the wine cabinet that he had the only other spare key to, on top of the fact that his browsing history also shows a rather interesting link to an article detailing the unusually high levels of arsenic present in certain brands of California wine - really, it all points to him. He knows his friend just went for a vacation in California, and of course since they are such _good friends_ , he naturally deduced that his friend's drinking habits would've tempted him to buy a large selection before he comes home. His friend selectively disposed of the wines that his friend could’ve chosen, which lead him to consuming the wrong brand of wine.”

  
“But what about the ex? She could’ve just discovered the key and selectively disposed of it too, for all we know,” he asserted desperately. “Both of them had motive!”

 

_Did everything he said just fly by the top of his head?_

 

“No, clearly not,” he gritted his teeth, clenching his hands. “Look, are you going to make me recount my reasons again? Arsenic poisoning was the cause of death, with the wine being the murder weapon. The date of the article on his browser was published a week before he killed his friend. His friend’s actual death came a few days after the article was posted and after his friend got back from his dandy vacation. Considering the time frame, it was not a surprise that the ex was suspected given the fact that she also played an influential factor in his mood. But, like I said, no signs of breaking and entering. No fingerprints or traces of her person were found. So, by the process of elimination, who remains? Clearly, _him._ ”

 

“But, John-”

 

“No. Look, even with or without my opinion on the forensic side of things - which I am not the lauded expert of, regardless of how much you all insist - my review of the interview footage would’ve also led to the same conclusion, even with or without the forensic evidence,” he interjected sharply. “Numerous instances of duping delight, one-sided shoulder shrugs, rigid repetition of specific sentences in the face of questions regarding his relationship with his friend, prolonged eye contact in certain questions, closed off body language, gestural slips - it’s so obvious. This guy’s a terrible liar.”

  
“Hold on, you _seriously_ can’t tell that off of interview footage, John! Honestly, I preferred your first approach as opposed to your second line of reasoning!” he exclaimed in frustration. “I don’t even know how you manage all this, mate, honestly! I know, you told me and everyone else that you underwent extensive and rigorous training in lie detection, but concluding all of that from an interview footage? _Really_?”

  
Three years of nothingness does that to a person, apparently. Three years of facing the threat of vacilatting between a state of nothingness or a state of complete dissocation that would have spiralled him on a course of inevitable implosion, he chose the former over the latter. Three years of nothingness and he filled the gaping emptiness in his chest with truckloads of information, patterns, and knowledge drawn from various academic sources and books that were stowed away in various compartments in his brain attic. At least with that, he still proved to himself that he was still capable of feeling something in contrast to the eternal winter that has dominated his landscape in the recent months. Anything - he would rather have anything, take anything - than continue facing the apparent void of meaning haunting his mortal life.

  
In twisted way, John could say that he preserved a small essence of his flatmate. It might not have been something physical in nature that others would have instantly recognized to belong to him, but instead, it was a signature quality to him that he slowly grew to embody, to emulate as he spent the years being less and less of the old persona that he was. It was a hollow impression, but nevertheless, no one could ever say that he wasn’t genuine anymore. Their accusations held no more ground, because the very manner of him becoming the second living embodiment of his methods and philosophy also pointed to the proof that his own career, intellect, and work were a testament to his rare originality of nature. In a way, the spirit of his mind lived on.

  
But this charade, this Act III of his Shakespearean tragedy - Fate has dragged it on for far too long. Her sadistic fountain pen dripping with the ebony liquid from her bottle of ink of Life, it was bringing more ruin to his life and the lives of his associates (no, never friends), prolonging their sufferings. Unnecessary suffering, he realised eons ago, was something he detested _passionately_ with every fibre of his being, with every cry of his cells. It culminated in wasted time - so much wasted time. Wasted effort, he hates it too.

  
Dead eyes, pale skin, sunken eyebags, eyelids always at half-mast, intermittent tremors on his hand on some days. His eyes have lost their light eons ago, and he stopped trying to care. He was a dead man walking, a living corpse waiting for the cold assessment following its inevitable autopsy. Of course, the medical examiner, like always, will come to different conclusions about the real reason underlying his own cause of death. Actually, that was another thing that fascinates him on a morbid scale - when people die, the people around them only trace back the cause of their deaths to the action that preceded that state of death, but never once have they successfully pinned down the true culprit responsible for their psychological implosion.

  
He wondered what they would conclude about his own death. Would it be a gun to the head? An accidental misstep as he was going down the stairs? A drugged tea or coffee containing lethal doses of arsenic (oh, well, that last one was definitely clever, but why more suffering for himself?)? A fall from the top of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, as a commemoration of his late friend’s death? _Cancer?_

He thinks it’s the last one.

How quaint. 

  
“You _wanted_ my professional opinion, I _gave_ you my professional opinion, Lestrade. Don’t discredit me and my background just because you couldn’t see the solution for yourselves. Like you said, I trained extensively and rigorously to get this good at what I do,” he replied softly, albeit with a strong hint of steel under his words. “In fact, even with my expertise, it should stand to reason that I shouldn’t even feel obligated to pick up any more cases from NSY, despite the enormous amount of help that I can give. I am not obligated to help, no one is forcing me to do this. In fact, I could earn a lot more money operating on my own, but no, I choose to help instead. I choose to help because without this, there is nothing in it for me.”

  
The detective’s eyes widened. “John, mate, look I didn’t-”

  
“ _There is nothing in it for me_ , Lestrade, and there is nothing you could gain by alienating me either,” he interjected. “I am the second greatest asset that the forensic department has. Without this work, there is nothing in it for me. You hear? _There is nothing in it for me._ ”

  
He exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, mate, I got carried away. You’re right, you’re right. I should be used to this by now - goodness knows that you’ve worked with us for the past three years. It’s just, you know,” he crossed his arms over his torso, brows furrowing in consideration. “Look, I never thought the day comes that I would actually say this - but, on somedays, just seeing the way you work, you just remind me of him. You do. Remind me of him. I’m sorry, it’s just, you know, reflex. I guess. Don’t mind me. Anyways, great work. I’ll give you the cheque by the end of the week.”

  
A more preferable reaction. And, dare he say it, an adequate rationalisation, despite his atrocious attempt at delivering the white lie. Nevertheless, he feels a little more satisfied. White lies were always preferable, provided he knew the underlying emotional context that propelled it.

“Nothing to it. If that’s all, I’ll be leaving,” he nodded curtly, striding toward the door leading out of the observation room. “If you have any more cases, send them my way.”

  
A hand alighted on his shoulder, stopping him. Craning his head, he looked back, eyeing the Inspector warily. “Hey, John, are you alright, mate?”

  
A pit of dread erupted in his abdomen. A dry patch formed and lingered at the back of his pharynx. He smiled thinly, furrowing his brows in a dubious manner. “Of course, I am. What kind of a question is that?” he snorted derisively. “I’m fine.”

  
Deflection, a classic verbal tell for a liar. Regardless, everybody lies and everybody will do so provided they see a personal gain. Dr. House wasn’t completely mad after all.

  
The detective narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure? Positive? You know, not everyone might be able to tell at a glance who’s the liar in a room or who’s not, but I think I’ve known you well enough through the years to know when you’re trying to bullshit me.”

  
The coil of dread tightened. He raised his eyebrow, pulling one corner of his lip inwards in a display of amusement. “Really? Now everyone’s suicidal to you? Give me more credit, Lestrade.”

Before he could continue the line of conservation, he retreated from the room, frantically attempting to conceal the level of alarm and desperation characterising his slightly manic gaits and agitated strides.

* * *

Days after the close encounter with Inspector Lestrade at the forensic department of NSY, he secluded himself in the deep trenches of his home territory at Baker Street, surrounding himself protectively with gargantuan stacks of academic journals, clinical textbooks, and newspapers from the Daily Telegraph. For nearly seven days and twelve hours, he remained in his designated chair beside the fireplace (not that he was ever thinking of seating in the other one), seated unmovingly as he huddled closer to himself and pressed himself further into the cushioned seat. Papers strewn about, he spent the last six hours meticulously and obsessively pouring over random assortments of text that were now placed haphazardly about the carpeted floor, the endless stream of letters and sentences forming a coagulated mess in his brain attic.

  
Every square inch of his own neurons, axons, and dendrites were alight with neural impulses from persistent neurotransmitters being transported across the synaptic space, locking him into a vicious cycle of repetitive thoughts and compulsions. With each moment that he closed his eyes, the darkness - the peaceful darkness that would usually come with such an act - was instead replaced with a series of vivid flashbacks and visions that only served to reinforce the savage cycle of near-endless insanity that is ravaging his precious brain.

  
With each breathe he takes in to his abused lungs, the very air particulates would obnoxiously craft a sinister way of irritating his alveoli and inflame his bronchi, resulting in a violent coughing fit that would relegate him to another tedious round of vomiting his own blood into the toilet, which in turn also induces another delightful period of chest pains that only increased in intensity. Despite the fact that patients with his condition display a staggering fifty-percent to sixty-percent chance of displaying paraneoplastic syndromes, he feels morbidly grateful and satisfied that his condition has not advanced yet to a degree that would’ve indefinitely affected his capacity to function normally and carry out his work.

  
Fevers, night sweats, weight loss, and the occasional bouts of fatigue - these he could handle in private, provided that none of them developed enough curiosity about the nature of his wellbeing. Nowadays, as his condition advances, even parts of his brain that would have once instinctively dissected the inner workings of others are starting to face the burden of reality. Even though he possesses a great amount of mental stamina, a portion of that energy can only transfer so far into his body before he eventually starts to collapse underneath the weight of physical demand brought forth by his body.

  
As long as he had breath left in him, he absolutely refuses to stop working - to stop escaping what games and tricks Fate has in store for him. As the date of his surgery draws near at an unprecedented rate, he starts wondering when would it be appropriate to start being more selfish with regards to his remaining time and energy. Other people may not see it, but the signs are written and etched cleanly and clearly across his skin - he is a dying man walking. Father Time may not have been generous enough to give him an exact starting value for his countdown, but, Father Time was gracious enough to inform him of his mortality and fragile state of humanity by providing him with an incentive to maximize the remaining value of his life before he eventually lost it to the laws of biology and the physics of cancer.

  
Surgery would not cure him of the condition that arose from his own biological prison, it can only delay his fate. But, at least, he was cunning enough to find a way to circumvent Fate’s latest attempts at thwarting him and buy himself more years to complete his selfish endeavors. But, of course, why stop there? Why not try to altogether cheat Fate at her own game, and walk away with all of the riches and none of the rags?

  
It is tantalising, this game he is playing.

  
In his mind, he makes the run-through of his mental list for the hundredth time in the past few days:

 

 

 

 

> 1\. Establish a new private consulting practice specialising in lie detection for all areas of business and human affairs. Should the situation permit, consultation work for the police can be done from time to time, albeit priority is placed in the former.
> 
> 2\. Phase out old social ties and move out of the country. Immigrate to either America or Canada. Preferably, New York or Toronto.
> 
> 3\. Create a new blog and publish new content relating the science of abduction and their relation to different avenues of work.
> 
> 4\. Write a book on lie detection.
> 
> 5\. Complete social isolation from any contacts or relations from this old life, preferably right after the surgery.
> 
> 6\. Get rid of the damn Glock. It’s no use to him.

  
“Oh, John, dear, what ever happened to you?” an elderly voice fretted. “Books all over the floor, papers everywhere, your tea! You never forget to drink your tea, dear! John, you look like a right mess! You’ve been sitting there for hours, this is quite unlike you!”

  
Raising his head from its bowed position, he was only partially successful at concealing the brief wince of pain that accompanied the sudden assault of vertigo that cupped him around the ears. Craning his head to the direction of the open door, he winced again as the glare of the white light scorched his retina. “Mrs. Hudson, I’m fine.”

  
The elderly woman produced a sound of protest. “No, you’re not! I’ll fix you a cuppa, how’s that for you? You need to get out of that chair and rest, you poor dear. You’ve been working yourself to the bone again,” her gnarled fingers closed over his wrist, her thumb making soothing gestures on the surface of his skin as she eyed him critically. “Get some rest, dear.”

  
He turned his head away from her. “I said I’m fine, Mrs. Hudson. And I am not working on any cases. They haven’t sent me any in the last week.”

  
She tutted. “Darn right they shouldn’t! You are in no state to perform any strenous work, young man! You’ve been hard at work lately. You deserve rest.”

  
He reared his head back in exasperation, exhaling heavily. “I need the cases, Mrs. Hudson. Too many people need my help. I can’t afford to bum around,” he frowned as more of his words became blended together in a slur.

  
“You’re burning up. You have a fever, John,” she reprimanded, holding her palm against his forehead. “You’re burning up. Come on, let’s get you settled in. And no buts, young man!”

  
“Young man,” he snorted derisively, feeling amused. “My days as a young man are long past behind me, Mrs. Hudson.”

  
“Oh, shut it, you,” she rebuked. “To me, all of you are just young’uns running about!”

  
After that, he did not remember the journey to his room as he fell asleep, sinking into the realm of Morpheus with little aid.

 

 


	2. Extinction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone of you that have seen _Logan_ in the last few weeks, then you would know by now that the title of the story was partially inspired by that awesome, gut-wrenching movie. I grew up with the Wolverine character as one of the highlights of my childhood, and this is just my way of paying tribute to one of my favourite Marvel characters. The rest of the story will have recurring elements from the movie.

**_All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible._ **

**_-_ ** _T. E. Lawrence_

 

* * *

 [ **[THEME SONG OF THE CHAPTER]**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gJEoxeW7JvQ)

* * *

 

The dusty particulates swirling through the sitting room made intriguing geometric patterns as it floated across the space, the sunlight filtering through the slightly parted velvet curtains highlighting the path of their flight. The vapour from his steaming cup of espresso coiled and swirled through the open air, the cup itself lying patiently atop the newly added coffee table aligned in the halfway point between the two chairs, untouched in the last half hour. Exhaling sharply through his nose, he craned his neck to the front again, resting the back of his cranium against the cushioned surface of his sofa.

  
He released a soft groan as the rigid muscles in his lower back uncoiled themselves, muscle fibres relaxing as he allowed himself to sink further into the seat. His sleeved arm shifted against the coarse texture of the weathered sofa, his fingers absently fiddling the thick body of the cigar. He raised the unlit end to his mouth and inhaled the smoke through the mouth. Flaring his nostrils, he diverted the gases through the passages of his nose, distantly observing the wisps of smoke trailing through the air with the shrewdness reminiscent of a cobra. The tingling sensation at the back of his nape increased in intensity and he closed his eyelids, honing in on the sensation. The isolation and the tranquility that only came once a millenia - he attempts his best to embed it into his neurons, feeling fiercely avaricious about the entire experience.

  
As a flood of endorphins and excitatory neurotransmitters flooded more synaptic spaces in between axon terminals and dendrites, he surrended to the positive feedback mechanism of his body - he raised the cigar to his lips again, the corners of his lips quirking upwards as the coarse surface of the Cuban sigar stung his dry lips. His lungs greeted the embedded chemicals with the amiability of an old friend. As if in response to the stray thought, his left hand twitched, and the smile vanished from his lips.

  
“Fascinating. I never took you for a smoker. Kudos to you for finding a way to sustain a proper smoking habit in London,” a voice drawled. “Better than those paltry nicotine patches.”

  
The stream of endorphins abruptly perished, and his muscles tightened almost immediately as the timbre and the vocal inflections of that voice pierced his chest, callously playing with his sinoatrial node. He felt his pulse skipping a beat as his carotid artery stayed still for a second too long. His index and middle fingers tightened their grip on the Cuban cigar even as his arms suddenly grew lax, muscles pulled down by an eerie and otherworldly weight.

  
_What on Earth -_

  
“Hair in disarray, prominent creases on your oxford shirt, upturned collars, and the unhealthy pallor of your skin, not to mention the deep creases in your trousers - you have not wandered outside of Baker Street for the last four days. Your coat suggests a state of complete disuse, judging by the accumulation of the lint and other air particulates on the surface. You went down to Speedy’s Cafe not long ago, I’d say not more than hour ago at most, judging by the steam rising from the untouched cup sitting in front of you. It was an attempt to change your mind about something, although what it is, I still do not know,” the voice drawled on. Far away, John’s ears could hear the cracking sound made by the distingerating Arctic shelves, sending tidal waves of change throughout the room. “You have spent the majority of your waking hours seated in that chair - reading, brooding. Dare I say it, thinking. Thinking of all sorts of things.”

  
_WHAT THE HELL -_

  
“You’ve lost about a stone lately. Your appetite has diminished, you are frequently lethargic. And, you are also chronically depressed. You have quit your medical practice at the clinic,” the voice changed vocal pitch as it arrived at the last word, indicating heightened interest. At a distant corner of his conscious mind, John chuckled bitterly. “You haven’t been involved with anyone in the last few years. You don’t get out as much, and yet, your limps have never once resurfaced.”

  
_WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON -_

  
“Here I am rambling away, and yet, silent as ever. Aren’t you going to stand and punch me, John? You are not as dull as you want others to think you are. I know that you want to - I can feel it from you!” the voice heightened to a near-screech. “Your mind is not playing tricks on you. Why don’t you face me, John? _Say something!”_

  
The ice cap sheared away from the glacier.

  
The heat in his blood coursed through his veins and flooded his optic nerves aggressively, leading to a dangerous increase in his pulse rate. His testosterone levels erupted to high levels, fuelling primal strength to his thick quadriceps. A manic sense of desperation and urgency propelled him on his two feet, the pulsating energy constricting around him in a chokehold. Abruptly, the eternal winter that has haunted his mental landscape for more months than he could possibly count abruptly retreated and vanished into the dark recesses of his mind, growing more and more out of reach as the scorching heat and wrath of the traitorous magma flooded his neurons. The scorching heat drove his hindbrain into overdrive, further propagating the addicting waves of heat into the furthest reaches of his fractured biology. With the finesse and ferocity of his olden days, his blunted emotions screeched back to life, chanelling the howl of its agony into the singular source of cause occupying the sitting room.

  
The guttural growl of his primal pain asserted itself through his vocal chords as his quads tensed and propelled him forward, his deltoid muscles and triceps contracting as it prepared for the pounce. His centre of gravity shifted violently as the wind clawed the dried skin of his cheeks. Fingers outstretched, it latched on savagely to the next piece of flesh that it encountered in its vicinity, locking its grip on the offending warmth. A distant cry of fear and surprise pierced his eardrums, and the guttural growl in the depths of his throat resurfaced with a ferocity that gratified him. The sound was reduced to a low, prolonged series of intimidating rumbles as his enemy whimpered beneath him. On instinct, he lowered his face to the pinned enemy’s, the toned muscles of his broad, well-defined shoulders bearing down his own bodyweight against the pinned quarry.

  
Eyes widened and pupils slitted into narrow holes that communicated the depths of his wrath, his upper lips pulled back in a menacing snarl, brandishing the white rows of teeth as a sign of dominance. Underneath him, a rich swirl of colours filled his gaze as he peered deeply into the eyes of his enemy. The pupils of his enemy dilated to great extent, until the only remaining sign of his true eye colour was the thin ring of those gut-wrenching colours (that were oh so familiar and impossible, because fuck it, those died along with him!) that were a cheap and cruel mimicry of the original. After a few nanoseconds of fragile silence, the muscles in his lower mandible contracted, opening his throat to produce the most sinister growl he has ever emitted.

  
_“I will kill you, I will kill you, I will kill you_!” his hindbrain bellowed, the curled digits of his fingers pressing down on the suprasternal notch. A choked sound pierced his ears and his hindbrain prompted him to press down deeper, relishing in the dry croak that followed.

  
“John, please -”

  
He snapped his jaws shut, pulling his upper lips into an ugly snarl. He leaned closer to the man’s face, the bridge of his nose scrunched in disgust. “ _I will hunt you down. Whoever you think you are, I will have your head.”_

“John, no, please-” a frantic note entered his ears.

Before his hindbrain could follow through, the unwelcome abyss flooded his senses. The fight in his muscles that was once fuelled by noradrenaline and epinephrine, deserted him as every myofibril bundle twitched and gasped desperately for sustenance. His arms became leadened weights, collapsing to his sides. His world shifted as he felt himself teetering sideways, the liquid in his cochlea swirling and moving about chaotically, his universe enterring a detestful state of disorder. He felt himself being transported into a state of zero-gravity, and a pulse of panic seized him.

His biology betrayed him as he unwillingly sunk into the peaceful depths of the Abyss, the eternal darkness engulfing and embracing him with the delicate softness he would have associated with a long-time lover. For the first time in what seemed like a millenia, the disturbed and tortured demons of his fragmented psyche was leashed by the peaceful Abyss, its eternal maw swallowing the demons that threatened to follow him into the realm of Morpheus.

His body cried in desperate relief.

* * *

 

The next instance that his consciousness resurfaced from its much-deserved respite in the tranquil realm of Morpheus, the arctic contrast of his dreaming world and the savage environment of empirical reality cruelly thrust his consciousness into the mortal realm. Every nerve ending, every receptor, every neuron in his mortal vessel - it howled and writhed at the sudden contrast between the comfort of the dreaming world to the prickly thorns of reality. As his spine arched in response, he discovered the intrusive existence of a muzzle-like device strapped around his face, locking together at the base of his neck. His lower mandible contracted to let the howl - trapped beneath layers of control in his constricted throat - a desperate escape into open air.

He writhed and thrashed against his environmental constraints, his wounded pride only propelling his resistance further as the tell-tale, hot flash of agony originating in his thymus surged upwards with a vengeance. Every alveoli cell worked overdrive as he drove his exhausted lungs into a state of overwork, nostrils flaring as the guttural growl behind his throat surged outwards with a vengeance. To anyone else in his immediate vicinity, they must have surely seen the manic glint behind his animalistic level of desperation.

  
In the throes of agony and rebellious resistance, his mind was flooded with the details - the agonising details - of various memories as his sanity finally caught up with his bodily sensations. The flashbacks and visions increased at a savage rate. He reared his head back and released a blood-curdling screech.

  
They drugged him. They sedated him. He was finally exposed as the shell of a man that he once was. Years of deception and maintaining his Mask, and it all evaporated into the wind with one masterful stroke. His Black King checkmated, cornered like a wounded animal. Layers to his personality that once did their job at deceiving them into a sense of trust, undone by minutes of animalistic desperation. His own hallucinations, his own fears that he spent years repressing and distracting himself from - he crafted his own pitfall when he gave in to himself, attacking the source of his distress. The sinking sense of suspicion that pervaded him during his brief period of tranquil isolation at his once-safe territory of Baker Street - he should’ve known better. He should’ve known better.

  
Lestrade must’ve grown suspicious of his choice of words in their last talk. He must’ve grown alarmed. He must’ve been the one to visit him at Baker Street on the day that he finally Lost It. It was the only plausible explanation to his current situation. He was mentally and emotionally vulnerable that day - of course his traitorous mind played tricks on him. It hallucinated a certain man who has most certainly dead and not alive no never alive and with that, he gave himself away.

  
They confined him to the bed, wherever he may be right now. They will come in later, with doctors and nurses and neurosurgeons and psychiatrists (oh, the list goes on) and they will poke around his head and they will find something there and stop him from Doing It -

  
He opened his eyes to the light.

  
Without another moment to waste, he craned his head to the side, stably lifting his arm, grasping the straps around his wrists. He scrunched his nose in furious concentration, hands frantically pulling and tearing at the restraints. After a few painful nanoseconds, he retracted his deltoid muscles and felt a strong wash of relief and delight as the velcro in his wrist restraints sheared away at the force of his pulls. Nostrils flaring, he surged his upper body forward with a sinister amount of force and energy, successfully dislodging the restraints around his torso. With a decisive lunge, he swung his legs over the hospital bed and landed quietly on the porcelain floor, the balls of his feet absorbing the majority of the impact in the landing.

  
He reached over to the base of his neck, fumbling for the latch over the muzzle. For a few seconds, he felt a snarl threatening to build up in the back of his pharynx as the latch remained stubborn underneath his efforts. A rush of relief washed over him as the metal latch successfully detached itself from the lock, and his fingers instinctively tossed it aside. The muzzle landed on the soft mattress atop the hospital bed, emitting no noise. Looking down at his forearms, he grouped together the bundle of IVs and savagely pulled them out of his skin, watching detachedly as they flopped down gracelessly into the tiled floors, the saline and drugged solutions dripping monotonously. Rearing his back up, his upper lip twitched as a snarl threatened to break out on his face.

  
His ears twitched as his sharp hearing picked up on the din of voices outside of his room, slowly approaching the locked door of his unit. He craned his head to face the window situated to the side of the bed, and he rapidly strode over to it, adrenaline temporarily fuelling him with the necessary strength and energy. Fumbling around for the lock, he diverted his strength into the muscles on his sore back. Gripping tightly, he pushed it open with a powerful upward thrust.

  
“ _....his condition is advanced, Mr. Holmes. He only received his first chemotherapy session yesterday. I am afraid that the tumor is already aggressively growing and invading other vital organs in his thoracic cavity,”_ the doctor’s voice said. “ _According to medical records, his last apppointment with his physician was one year and seven months in the past. We suspect that it might have started around the same time. As of now, his prognosis is loooking grim. But given what you know of him, I am certain he wouldn’t go down without a fight.”_

  
_“Spare me the sentiment, doctor. I deal in the realm of logic and facts, so therefore, I have no need for reassurances. I am already fully aware of his delicate state - there is no more need to inform me of it,”_ he nearly stuttered into a halt as he ducked out of the window. Grinding his jaws, he continued his escape. _“I want you to move his surgery earlier, with the latest by the end of this week. I will make sure that he is on watch at all times.”_

 

Even in empirical reality, the hallucination is quite determined to get to him. He must be in another dream level again. No matter.

  
_“But, Mr. Holmes! The bookings are quite -”_

  
He heard the man snapping like the rabid dog he always remembered him as. A violent surge of arctic fury flooded his body and he closed his eyes, nostrils flaring as he attempted to calm his traitorous body’s physiological reactions to his accumulating wrath. “I don’t care what drastic measures must be taken, Dr. Sheppard. I am willing to part with a large sum of money in exchange for an earlier surgery date. You know full well who I am, doctor. It is in your own self-interest that you comply with my conditions. There is absolutely no need for you hold up my friend’s recovery.”

  
_“Mr. Holmes, it is not that simple -”_

  
_“- You will do whatever it takes, doctor,_ ” the unspoken threat existed beneath the layers of steel. _“I know you will. If you value your career. Or, perhaps it might be so that you are secretly longing for the general public to know the extent of your own ‘illustrious’ history?”_

  
_“...I will see to it,”_ the resentment was there, just beyond his reach.

  
John bit down on the tip of his tongue to prevent the bitter cackle that threatened to spill forth. As he stood in the freezing bite of the city’s frigid and hostile weather, he finally began laying out the beginning parts of his new strategy and tactics. Crouching to his knees, he lunged forward and surged himself into free-fall. As gravity did its work on his mass, he poised himself for a graceful and silent landing on the cobbled pavement concealed by the complex exterior of the hospital’s esoteric architecture.

  
He will need to leave the country and map out his next destination for the Americas by the end of the night. While getting out of the radar of airline security is a challenge in of itself, he trusts his established ex-military contacts to remain faithful to his call on fulfilling a long-deserved favour. The list of people that he trusts has dwindled over the past three years, however, some names remained constants. Even though it may have been years since he last called on them, he knows that he has already earned the loyalty of his boys long ago, even before he began his life as a soldier in Afghan lands. His boys once landed in a rough patch and he got them out, no fuss and no muss. In return, they will return the favour.

  
They will.

  
He always knew that it was coming, he told himself repeatedly. Someday, it would not be enough. Someday, it would not be enough that he fooled them by his expressive Mask and deceptively light-hearted body language and mannerisms. Someday, he knew it would not be enough. Which was why he learned to plan and make contingencies of all sorts, a vital lesson he learned in the times in his youth that he laid out the chess board and placed the pieces in a chaotic order as his rational mind analysed the various dynamics that could result from a single move.

  
The one thing that his old world never knew about the young Watson was his successfully concealed gift in the arts of strategy and the art of war dynamics. The young Watson of his earlier years developed an affinity for the strategic arts. The intelligent dance between two minds at war with each other in a desperate bid to conquer the other into submission - it was an intimate dance that he craved in his youth.

  
In between his study periods as an undergraduate and a medical student, the young Watson turned to the mental challenges placed forward by the ancient game of chess and relied on the beloved game as a means of passing the time. Every piece, his grandfather told him - a former Grandmaster with a FIDE rating higher than even Karpov himself - each played a special role on the board. The pawn, a piece overlooked by others, possessed a special ability that no other piece had - the pawn had the ability to evolve into the Queen. Pawns, his grandfather said, were notoriously easy to underestimate and cast aside. Chess was essentially a war of attrition, and for novice players, it was difficult for them to perceive the value in preserving pawns as the game inches onwards into the middlegame and endgame phases.

John Watson was that pawn. It was always a feature of him that puzzles him to this day. For whatever reason, the people around him continually underestimated his capacities - his abilities. Despite the accolades he has accumulated under his name, they still never failed to continue underestimating him, casting him aside as a piece of lesser value. It infuriates and amuses him, really.

  
Harry, because he was the younger brother. Mycroft, because he was the ‘soldier who mistakes stupidity for bravery’. The general populace, because he is only (and would only) be remembered as the nameless doctor and blogger who occasionally chronicles the details of the cases that John Watson thinks would interest the readers - the blogger that looked lost without the familiar silhoette of a famed consulting detective. Lestrade and NSY, because they apparently saw his attempts to replicate the deceased detective as a last bid attempt at preserving his fragile and thinning sanity. Sherlock, because he failed to observe the lethal type of intelligence that John Watson possessed - believing his own brand of intellect to be the most superior one in existence.

  
The lethal type of intelligence that was not only rare to find in the general populace, but also hard to replicate successfully in certain conditions. John Watson was unique, regardless of how people viewed him or thought of him. John Watson would always possess commendable qualities that no one else can ever hope to replicate or aspire to surpass. He may have lacked in a certain type of intellect, but with his own brand of intellect (as developed and sharpened as ever, because age and time is never an excuse to slack off), his natural affinity for psychological dynamics will eventually topple all other stratagems.

  
Because John Watson will always be two things that the rest of them won’t be - ruthless and adaptable. Holmes men, for their touted pride in remaining detached from baser human sentiments and tendencies, were ironically blind in affairs that concerned their loved ones. The clnical mask of analysis and logic failed to hold up against the pressures of their instincts. Because of their continued insistence on upholding such a fallacious image, they have inadvertently deprived themselves of one facet of human relations that were vital to their survival, as dictated by evolution - the need to empathize and connect. And because of this, their hunger is great. So great is it that their descendants have remained clueless and blind to the influences of this weakness until it is too late.

On the other hand, the Watsons retained their pragmatic nature. They analysed and adapted, because it was the only constant rule to anything and everything.

  
The identity of John Watson will perish by the end of the fortnight. All traces of his existence will vanish and evaporate into the darkest recesses of cyberspace, the bits of data that once characterised and proved his existene forever scrambled and broken down into indistinguishable chunks of binary digits disposed off in the unused territories of cyberspace.

  
From now on, _Sebastian Moran_ will take the helm. And from there, he will stir his life into the course that he wants for himself. There will be no outstanding obligations and social ties that will prevent him from sailing to the tune of his own wants.

  
The journey of his new life was marvelously and elegantly heralded by the echo of a distressed cry reverberating in the distance.

 


	3. Shadows of Death

_**Do not go gentle into that good night,**_  
**_Old age should burn and rave at close of day;_ **  
**_Rage, rage against the dying of the light._ **  
  
**_Though wise men at their end know dark is right,_ **  
**_Because their words had forked no lightning they_ **  
**_Do not go gentle into that good night._ **  
  
**_Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright_ **  
**_Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,_ **  
**_Rage, rage against the dying of the light._ **  
  
**_Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,_ **  
**_And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,_ **  
**_Do not go gentle into that good night._ **

**_\- Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953_ **

* * *

  **[[THEME SONG OF THE CHAPTER]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AtHubsyGD8w)**

* * *

 **Toronto, Ontario** \- **8 months later**

Gaunt eyes were etched on the mirror in front of him, reflecting back the haggard and weary aura that is circulating his body with every step of his diligent, unwavering feet. He frowned at the wrinkled lines and permanent creases that dotted and decorated the lining of his sickly flesh of some part of his forehead, before conscious effort took over and he smothered any remaining signs of his prior mood. He heaved a weary sigh, the formerly tense muscles in his nape going limp as he bowed his head. The weight of his bowed head pulled on the strained deltoids attached to his shoulder blades, the dip between his shoulders becoming more prominent as he exhaled another heavy sigh.

Gravity worked against him in these times, constantly haunting him with the same level of enthusiasm and obnoxious as a vulture eagerly circling its quarry in the skies overhead, patiently awaiting the day its quarry’s pulse stops beating. More than anything, it was nothing more than obnoxious presence - nothing to be fearful about. Months earlier, he would’ve been strong enough to say that he could have simply shrugged it off and saunter on without a care in the universe. Nowadays, it was akin to a ticking clock - except, you did not know when the tock would sound. At this point, he would take myocardial infarctions over anything else. Myocardial infarctions, however agonizing they were to the mortal vessel, were at least obvious enough that he could spot the symptoms a proverbial mile away.

This _thing_ that was killing him however, is a _fucking tease_. A fucking tease, is what it was. Oh, it did shrink a little bit over the course of the months. But it was still there, the son of a bitch.

Without any type of warning, his arm elevated itself into the air and it slammed his fisted hand to the marbletop counter of the bathroom. The joints and ligaments groaned underneath the force, before pushing back against the smooth and cold surface, counteracting the force.

He needed a cigar. He always needed that specific thing lately, hasn’t he? It was like a clingy child, always desperate for attention. He seemed to get addicted to any substance that took him out of his head nowadays. The siren's call of morphine, of adrenaline, anything really that had the potential to take him out temporarily and lift him into a state of nirvana. It's another sign; he's getting too old for this, but at the same time, the sentiment isn't entirely accurately reflected in the state of his physical appearance. 

He raised his head and shot one more glance at his reflected profile, feeling a well of self-loathing. Ever since he managed to slip past the security measures in the international airports as Sebastian Moran, his logical and habitual mind still had difficulties adjusting to the rapid changes in his environment and circumstances. Some days just when he was sitting out in the porch of his suburban home cleaning out his rifle and military equipment - more out of habit and comfort than anything, really - he sometimes thought it ironic that the fatigue he has was not really something that could be diagnosed with medical equipments. It felt more like the chronic type of weariness that came from the state of the mind, and not from the body. 

It was ironic, really. He was constantly balancing himself, between the edge of a cliff and the safety of familiar ground. The gnawing feeling that often came with the lull in his life made him restless and agitated on somedays, while the complete absence of it made him see the world in sharper clarity in other days. In those times, his emotions were like the sharpened edge of a blade, resharpened for use. It was both calm and hyperfocused. He sometimes didn't know what to do. And for months, he tried to assimilate himself into civilian society again. But it was for naught, he realised. A part of him will always belong in that state, always wanting and always seeking after a desire to continuously be on the move, to never settle, to never stop. Change was no longer something he expected, it was in a way his routine already. So, without having anything else to do in the last few months, he further trained his mind to block out the things he didn't want to focus on. Instead, he brought into the forefront the things he  _did want_ to focus on improving. 

So he threw himself to work, falling back onto his military routine. His muscles, once locked into a state of disuse and atrophy, have now returned to their state of former glory. Every square of inch of muscles fibres and myofibrils, both at the cellular and macroscopic level, responded efficiently at his command, characterised by a level of lethality that far surpassed his military conditions. The deposits of carbohydrates to his adipose tissues have receded and shrunk as it adapted to his new diet and lifestyle. Persistent diligence to his training regimen has renewed the state of his physique, to the point that his current physique mimics that of the body composition often associated with ancient hunter-gatherers. His skin, once wrinkled with traces of grief and despair, have found a catalyst for healing, responding to the diligent care he has invested into his body, despite the knowledge of his condition.

His formerly graying hair - once trimmed after the military cut that he has become far too comfortable with for his liking - was now dyed a rich, luxuriant shade of chestnut brown that caught the gleam of the light at the right angles, in a manner that highlighted the prominent jaw lines and the piercing look of his eyes. More than two-thirds of his hair was now parted to one side, the chestnut fringes combed over and kept in place by a stubborn hair gel. The current styling reflected his pragmatic and adaptable nature - two aspects of himself that he held great pride in.

The muscle fibres in his neck jutted out as he moved his head away from the mirror. A brief flash of an old scar caught his eye and he froze from his movements, eyeing it suspiciously. He lifted his hand away from the countertop, his facial expression impassive as he traced the edge of his thumb across the length of the scar.

The faded, straight line of the incision started from the lower edge of his collarbone and ran down the length of his sternum, cutting through the flesh diagonally as the scar disappeared through the layer of his wide-necked shirt. The edge of his lip twitched as he briefly reminisced on the emotional significance and origin of the scar, wistfulness proliferating through him. After a few more minutes of impractical musing, he removed his hand.

“Hey,” a soft voice filtered through the locked door. “You okay there?”

  
A snarl threatened to burst forth from his lips. He trapped the edge of his tongue between his incisors, smothering the sound. Closing his eyes in agitation, he exhaled and fell back on his mindfulness techniques in an effort to ground himself in the present. “I’m fine,” the monotonous drawl rolled from his tongue, the words tainted with a hint of a northern accent. It's another part of himself that he has added to the list of never-ending lies and deceptions. He really needs to stop being a human, if only for the sake of the ones he loves. “Go back to sleep. It’s three A.M., for Pete’s sake. Don’t ya have an early shift in the morning?”

A soft, demure chuckle echoed from the other side of the oak door. “I do, but, seeing as you woke me up, there’s really no point in sleeping again, ain’t it? ‘sides, you've had a lot on your mind lately,” the voice took on a gentler tone. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes, flaring his nostrils as a violent exhale escaped him. “Come on, honey, talk to me. Talk to me, ‘kay? About...anything. Anything at all. Just, stop pushing me away.”

  
Or what? What can be done about this? About him? About his cancer, about his deceptions, about his Mask? They always trailed after him like the walking dead, forever attracted to the tantalising scent of the living, jaws watering over as they salivated after the meat only found on the living. He didn't really want to have anything to do with the dead. His past, his old identity, and his old social ties - they were dead to him already. He was always preparing for the eventuality that his safe little haven wouldn't last, because he was a realist. 

But was he ready to give it up, just because they might knock on the front door?

 _Hell no_. 

“Go back to sleep and let me be,” he exhaled, frantically trying to regulate his breathing. He leaned further into the countertop, shutting his eyelids as a wave of vertigo assaulted his senses. “I’m fine.”

The voice snorted. “All right, I’m coming in. I tried giving you the easy way out, but you’re just the stubborn mule, aren’t you? Okay? I’m coming in, Sebastian, whether or not -”

  
The snarl bubbled over, escaping from his tightly-reined control. He whirled around on his heels and slammed his toned shoulder against the surface of the bathroom door, pushing it open with a violent creak of the hinges. Nostrils flared, he advanced on the wide-eyed, smaller figure of a leanly-built man, shoulders pulled back in an alert position. As if in response to a primitive instinct, he froze from his imposing advances, lips pursing as the dishevelled state of his partner registered into his brain. A small prick of guilt welled up in his gut as he noted the slightly elevated breathing rate and the submissive body language his mate was unconsciously assuming, his partner’s hands trembling slightly as if in fearful anticipation of an abhorrent consequence to his intrusions to his privacy.

  
He had never been this agitated in years. What was _wrong_ with him? What the hell is wrong with him?

  
Bowing his head, John craned his neck away from the smaller man, moving towards the king-sized bed with sluggish steps. Wordlessly, he ambled over to the left side of the mattress, flopping down into a sitting position, the curve of his back growing more pronounced as fatigue settled in between his shoulders. The additional weight on his knees distracted him from the phantom pains razing through his left shoulder. Closing his eyes for the umpteenth time in the hour, he burrowed his face into the palms of his hands, his fingers digging through the roots of his hair. He exhaled heavily, the warmth from his breath spreading through his hands.

  
After a few minutes, he slowly dragged his hands away, craning his head to the side to face the blatant concern etched all over the visage of his partner. He squinted against the dark background of the room as he made eye contact, before mustering his best effort at cultivating an apologetic tone. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. Let’s just peg it off to stress, alright, babe? It’s nothin’ against you,” he let his arms rest limply at his sides. “I’m sorry you had to see that. It’s...been a while since I’ve had it that bad.”

  
The smaller man pursed his lips, crossing his arms over his chest. He raised an eyebrow, gazing at him challengingly. “ ‘Stress’? Is that the type of shit that passes off as PTSD nowadays? I’m not soft. And I ain’t the type to get easily offended either, so stop trying to treat me like I’m the woman here,” the man narrowed his eyes. Despite himself, John almost felt himself smiling wistfully. “You’ve been high-strung, yeah. I sort of noticed it, even if you failed to mention it in the beginning. It doesn’t take a genius to realise that you have PTSD, despite how hard you sometimes try to hide it. And even then, when nobody noticed, I noticed, Logan. I noticed, because I am good at that sort of thing.”

  
“Hey, hey, no one here is arguin’ about that, alright, baby? You’re as smart as they come,” he smiled slightly. A flash of amusement ran through him when the smaller man sputtered in outrage, permanently losing his composure. “While I am appreciative of the fact that you noticed, sometimes things like this just need to simply be let go. I don’t have the energy to get into another discussion with you, babe, no matter how much you think I need it,” he replied softly. “Things like this...they just come and go for me, that’s all. That’s how I’ve dealt with it, and it’s pretty good so far.”

  
“But, Logan -”

  
He sighed. Boffins and their insistent, intrusive logic. “Bury the hatchet, babe. Come on, come over here and let’s get back to sleep. And no,” he narrowed his eyes at the smaller man when he threatened a potential rebuttal. “There will be no psychoanalyzing going on in your end. Again, seriously, babe, just get over here and sleep. I’m tired and I could do with some more shuteye.”

  
The smaller man’s lower eyelid twitched in irritation. “You military types and your authority privileges. I’ll never understand it.”

  
He smirked. “But you like it when you ride one like me, don’t you? That’s cute. No, really, that’s cute,” he drawled on, observing with staunch amusement as a vibrant flush of crimson flooded his partner’s cheeks. “I’ve always found it curious why people of your sort always have a kink for that, us military types.”

  
“Shut up or -” he stuttered into a halt, breaking off as John interjected again.

  
“Too early, babe. Come on, sleep. Maybe I’ll rethink it again in the morning, when I am in a better mood,” he winked, inwardly smirking at the flustered profile of his mate. “ ‘sides, it’s been a while since you got a thorough fucking, huh?”

  
He cackled when a pillow barely missed his head, by a hair-length.

* * *

Despite the taxing and gruelling nature of his work, John was, for once in his life, satisfied and content at the refreshing change of scenery that has now become the one constant in his new life. The familiar comfort in the routine of his curent occupation was a sensation that he has gradually transitioned into accepting, months after his subsequent dissapearance from the city of London, and from Europe altogether. The logical and sequential steps involved in his current profession was a refreshing change from the all of the case work that he has taken up and brought to a conclusion from both private clients and NSY officers alike over the past few years.

While he would certainly miss the intellectual challenges associated with his former line of work, the extensive amount of manual labor on the other hand was so fulfilling that he was tempted more than once to fall for the belief that he can forever remain enclosed in the safety bubble he created with his current alias. Retirement was an aspiration that everyone around him seemed to have, and he felt a flash of spiteful envy before he smothered the emotion with his iron discipline. Retirement, for someone of his sort, was a luxury, not an inevitability. It was a luxury because the very thing itself was not a guarantee. It was only a mere probability that he was willing to bet his life own. It might come true, it might not.

Regardless, a man can still wish.

  
“Hey, Logan, someone here want’s to see ya!” a voice hollered.

  
Grunting with vindictive effort, he gritted his teeth as he heavily brought down the device that he was operating manually in favor of looking up at his co-worker. Squinting against the glare of the overhead sun, he furrowed his brows and casted a sidewards glance at the distant profile of his acquaintance, narrowing his eyes at him as the jubilant man continued waving his arms in a vague direction. He exhaled heavily through flared nostrils, feeling a brief prick of annoyance. “What is it? This ain’t exactly the righ’ time for talking, Dawson!” he yelled over the loud cacophony generated by construction. “Whoever it is, tell them to wait after my shift!”

  
“Well, looks urgent to me, Logan!” the damn man was smiling, for Pete’s sake. Smiling. “Come on, don’t disappoint the pretty boy! He’s waiting, like a good kid!”

Did he mention the reality surrounding his daily work life?

  
He rolled his eyes at the sidelong comment, doing his best to ignore the raucous catcalls echoing through his colleagues. He smothered the sneer that threatened to break out on his face and settled for a bitter huff. Displacing his equipment for the time being, he strethed his shoulders and scaled down the half-finished roof, landing squarely on the uneven earth. He gritted his teeth, feeling a flash of agitation course through him.

  
“Damn, since when did you get hooked up with one of those? Rumors are goin’ around, pal, saying that you picked up some tramp,” a man beside him called out, and he could hear the damn grin in the man’s words. “So, who is it?”

  
“Your ex-wife, Richie,” John retorted.

  
The men snickered.

“Nice try, soldier boy, but -”

  
“Hey, get back to work! Besides, you ain’t the one I called down, Richie!”

  
He rolled his eyes, sauntering on.

  
“All right, what is it, boss? This one better be good,” he crossed his arms over his chest.

  
An arctic blast of apprehension seized him as the edges of his peripheral vision registered the height and the figure of a dreaded profile. In the distant corners of his mind, the memory compartments of his brain awoke with a violent, electrochemical jolt as the dreaded profile came into clearer view in his cone of vision. A flood of alertness and adrenaline entered his bloodstream, propelling his sensitive mental faculties into a state of overdrive. In that moment, he felt a clear divide between his physical self and his inner self as the crevice created by his dissociating state grew larger.

  
How did they find him? _Why the hell can’t they live him alone?_

_"It's because people never really change, Moran. They never did. Once they got you, they got you by the balls, yo._

  
“Hey, where were you then?” his boss asserted himself. “You kind of zoned out, man. Do you know this guy?” his voice dropped to a gentle whisper. “Is it a bad time? Sorry about that, pal. Really. I...didn’t know.”

  
He pursed his lips, hands clenching. “It’s fine, Dawson. It’s all good,” he forced a smile, blatantly ignoring the suspicious glint in the other man’s gaze. “I, uh, just have to make a call for a second, alright? Gotta talk to James.”

_Don’t come any closer, fucker!_

His past always caught up with him, one way or another. Fate’s got him by the balls this time, and he has no where else to go. Not after his cover is getting really close to being exposed and systematically dismantled, piece by piece. A hysterical laugh threatened to break free from the edges of his tongue, but he terminated the urge to do so. There was no point. There was no fucking point. Somewhere out there, he’ll gladly bet his other arm that Fate was losing her shit, laughing about the magnitude of his emotional dilemma. She was such a bitch sometimes.

A hysterical laugh threatened to come out of his mouth.

  
Dawson raised his eyebrows. “ James? Since when did you pick yourself up a ‘James’?”

  
_Fucker always gets his way._

He was a fucker, even beyond the grave. Months ago, he would’ve doubted himself, casting it off as a mere hallucination in a bid to rationalise his way through the situation. Nowadays, he knew better than to distrust his gut instincts and the information being fed to his brain by his five senses. They were a lot more trustworthy and reliable, than the word of mouth that came from other people. Those fucking kinds of people that he thought he left behind. If only he had his hunting rifle - he would've aimed the scope in the middle of their damn foreheads and blown it off with his .50 calibre rounds. And, enjoy the bloodbath. 

“Months ago, you asshole,” he retorted lightheartedly, grinning tightly, fumbling for the phone in the backpocket of his weathered denim pants. “Contrary to popular opinion, I’m not a shitty person to be in a relationship with. 'sides, is it hard to believe I migh' also want that kind of thing?”

It _was_ true.

“Oh, I can see how hard it would’ve been, for this James,” Dawson quipped, doubtful. “Just for how long -”

“ _Sebastian Moran_ , what a pleasant surprise,” a dreaded voice asserted itself.

The one dangerous thing about war survivors that these civilians seemed to forget, was the extent of their hidden lethality and ruthlessness when it came to protecting their hallowed territory from potential poachers. There was a reason - a compatible reason - as to why certain people of a specific inclination always signed up for a chance at being put out there, in the heart of the action where blood from both sides are being spilled and crudely slashed open, left and right. There was a fucking reason. It was the only time and place where they really felt alive. In control. Not powerless.

Hide-and-seek games was his bread and butter. Guerilla warfare was in his blood. Blietzkrieg operations were his kind’s signature. War survivors were tempered in such a way that it makes them surprisingly more durable and adaptable than the rest of these pompous civilians - who never knew the real extent of the psychological effects of seeing and spilling blood like a rampaging dire wolf at the drop of a command, who never knew the pleasure of gambling with death and walking away from it all, never feeling more alive.

War survivors tempered and molded to fulfill just one purpose - to endure and survive, at the cost of anything.

This man standing before him, will not be his first and would certainly not be his last obstacle. His days of running and hiding away are finished. These people, these pampered civilians, have just spent what remaining mercy and patience he has in his reserves. These people have been rude, and they foolishly stirred awake an ancient beast that they should’ve left alone. As an old idiom went, ‘you reap what you sow’.

  
He _will not_ be tamed. He _will not_ be caged like a wounded animal again in their inhumane medical facilities, forcefully hooked onto endless streams of IV tubes in a desperate bid to confine his traitorous biology from venturing into the realms of permadeath. He _will not_ return to them with open arms, pretending all is right by the world. He _will not_ be separated from his mate, and should they even begin to think of reviving his old identity, he _will_ hack away _and_ slash apart at their very jugulars, primal fury and rage incarnate as he rains down like the east down upon them all, razing apart everything they ever cherished down to the very earth.

He was wild and free. He was always meant to be a free spirit, not tethered to anything and anyone he hasn’t chosen for himself. The call of the open world was not something he would willingly set aside, in favour of old social contacts and bridges that have brought him more harm than sustenance. Whereas before he would’ve willingly sought out death, he now sought to live. _And live he will_ , free from their restrictive expectations of the social niche that is set up for him in a way that was convenient for their fucking needs. But now, like old snakes from his past, they’ve come slithering back and out into the open. With their fangs out and forked tongues flickering out of that abominable maw, they’ve come to take him back, assimilate him once more into their dull, grey world.

It doesn’t matter to him anymore. He will not surrender, he will not run back to them with his tails between his legs.

_It doesn’t fucking matter anymore._

They are going to _fucking get the fight of their lives._

And if it means dying at the end of it, then, so be it. He would gladly die from this earth, if it only meant that he managed to defend his right to personal freedom of choice.

What a tale it would make.

Craning his head to the side, John slowly turned his gaze on to the despicable profile of the world’s famous consulting detective. Keeping his gaze impassive, he smothered the snarl that threatened to burst forth from his tongue as he steadied his grip on the mobile in his right hand, the screen still illuminated as it featured the background activity of the messaging app, still in the process of calling his chosen contact. He traced his attentive gaze over the immaculate manner of dressing that so often characterised his former flatmate, standing in painful contrast to the state of the environment.

Returning his gaze to eye level, he nearly lost his control over the homicidal urge that ran through him at the sight of the man’s prominent smugness that outlined nearly every aspect of his person in this moment. He straightened his shoulders, gazing unblinkingly into the man’s eyes. Undeterred by the calculating gaze, he brought the mobile closer to his ear. He revelled in the momentary flash of confusion that flickered across the detective’s face, before it was concealed again.

He has never missed his Sig Sauer as much as he did now.

  
_“What do you want?”_ the groggy voice spoke up from the phone. “ _It’s 3 PM. What the hell do you want?”_

  
“Hey, babe, you awake?” he turned his body away from the two people standing near him, blatantly ignoring the puzzled glances from Dawson and outright disregarding the outraged pulse of emotion that emanated from the detective.

Oh no, it’s not his move yet. He’s just playing up the suspense.

 _“I’m now,”_ the voice snorted derisively. Despite himself, John couldn’t manage to conceal the smile that cross over his face for a brief second. “ _What the hell do you want, Sebastian?”_

 _“Just wanted to tell ya that I’m ending my shift a little earlier than usual,_ ” he crossed his arms over his broad chest. He reached out his other hand into the pocket of his construction jacket, pulling out a cigarette from the Marlboro package he purchased a few days ago from the gas station. “ _I’ll bring pizza. Fair enough for ya?_ ”

  
A moment’s silence, before the voice over his mobile surrendered with a sigh. “ _Fine. Get back here before dinner. Or, I’ll lock you out of the house. Serves you right for waking me up.”_

“Lockin’ me out sounds counterproductive, doesn’t it, babe? ‘sides, ain’t my fault that you stay up so late all the fucking time, workin’ away at your computer. You don’t get your pizza, either way, FYI,” he chuckled as he extended the cigarette to Dawson’s direction. His acquaintance wordlessly lit the butt of the cigarette and he nodded in gratitude, inhaling the gaseous substances as he bit down on the cigarette. John inwardly revelling in the flash of astonishment that flickered across the detective’s face. “Well, I gotta go now. Dawson’s being an ass again.”

  
The broad-shouldered man sputtered. “ _What the hell_ , man -”

  
“It’s true, bub,” He flashed his colleague a smug, wide-toothed grin, feeling a pang of gratification as the ire of the detective steadily grew at his blatant ignorance of his presence. “Dawson sends his regards, by the way,” he added in. He inwardly chuckled at his partner’s unseen reaction.

He _will_ keep this and _have this_. He _will_ have this in his life. He fucking _deserved it_.

 _“Yeah? Well, tell him I said ‘fuck you too’,_ ” the man snapped. “ _Pepperoni and cheese, Logan. Don’t forget it_.”

  
“Will do, babe,” he replied. With a fleeting downwards glance at the Android phone, he swiped his gloved thumb across the screen, terminating the app. Craning his neck to face the direction of the recently-revived detective, he flashed him a dangerous grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Well, if that’s all, I’ll let this...reunion continue. Don’t mind me, folks,” Dawson said, before slipping away into the background, rejoining his co-workers. “Why don’t you take the day off for tomorrow, eh? You might want to, ugh, spend it _catching up_ ,” the jester irritatingly waggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

“I’m an honest man, Dawson. Shut the fuck up, will ya?” he retorted. 

Dawson flipped the bird on him, grinning in that playboy fashion before turning on his heels, walking away. “Have a fun night with your pretty boy then, Honest Man!”

Even the ironic nature of the other man’s blissful ignorance was enough to wrench out a chuckle from him.

 _Keep him waiting,_ he thought. _He’s done playing his games with me._

The raven-haired detective remained impassive as ever, back straightened as if attempting to come across as dominant and imposing. His gloved hands were clasped together at his back, and he gazed onwards at him, unblinkingly. That familiar Belstaff coat of his was a pragmatic choice for the current Canadian weather ravaging the city, and he found himself on the brink of feeling a wistful sensation before he crushed it willingly underneath the weight of his palm. Despite the length of time that it took for the other man to finally pinpoint his current whereabouts, it was still somewhat gratifying to know that he managed to elude the other man’s scrutiny, even if it was for a meager small amount of time in his short life.

What a shame though, because this civilian didn’t know the full extent of what he’s about to face. He refused to abide by the rules of the other man’s game. If it took the direct approach of assault in order to clear this unwanted obstacle from his way - and permanently - and from his life, he will do it. Here and now.

There was no point in prolonging the game. He never really had the patience for foreplay anyways.

  
“Well, spill it then,” he did not bother dropping his adopted accent. He avariciously clung to it, with every intake of breath and with every beat of his pulse. He tossed aside the spent cigarette, roughly exhaling the remaining gaseous substances through his nose.

“You need to stop this, John,” the other man said in a subdued tone. _“Please.”_

The bastard’s _fucking gall._

  
He raised his eyebrows, the corners of his lips twitching upwards in bitter amusement. He pulled his lips into an expression of contempt, crossing his arms over his toned chest. _“I’m sorry_ , since when did you fall under the impression that I was, in any way, obligated to listen to you?” he strode past the other man, gazing up into the buildings beside the construction site. “Last I checked, I am a free man. Free to go wherever I needed, wanted. Free to associate with who I want to associate with.”

  
“John, please,” the other man continued to plead. The fucker really knows no bounds. “Come home. Mrs. Hudson and I...London needs you, John,” he swallowed, his face pinched with a slight expression of apprehension. “Please.”

  
Oh, they’re not even hiding it anymore. They really are intent to drag him back to that treacherous burrow, alive and pliant. Absolutely no fucking way.

A fight to death sounds in order.

“No. That’s all I’m gonna say,” he replied resolutely, impassively eyeing the detective, raising his chin in an imposing manner. John tilted his head slightly, lips pursed. “Leave us alone, and you won’t hear from me. Get the fuck out of my face, bub.”

A flash of fury flickered across the other man’s face. “You don’t get to talk like that to me-”

  
_“I don’t fucking care about what you guys want from me, you stupid son of a bitch! You hear me? I. Don’t. Give. A. Fuck._ ” he bellowed. The cacophony produced by the construction machines abruptly stopped, he distantly registered. The raven-haired detective flinched violently and retreated a few steps back, wide eyes as his mouth parted slightly in fear and surprise. He lowered his head, glaring at him imposingly. “ _I’ve_ got a family to look after. A _family_ of my own. And you sure as hell ain’t gettin’ in my way, not after all that I’ve worked for to _earn it_ ,” he spat, rounding up on him. “Like I said, _leave us alone_. Or you’re coming in into a fight you sure as hell don’t want to get involved in.”

  
“ _Hey, hey!_ What the _fuck_ is going on here -” Dawson cut in, yelling.

  
A snarl bubbled forth from the base of his throat. He whipped around, facing the other man enroaching on his conversation. “Don’t get involved in this, Dawson. This is between me and this _bastard._ ”

“ _Fucking hell I will_ , Sebastian! You’ve been out of sorts lately and _maybe_ this is the reason for it!” Dawson snapped hotly at him, inserting himself between, acting as the barrier from a potentially disastrous conflict. “If the both of you are going to fight like sissies over something in the past, get the hell off my construction site! Settle it somewhere else! We sure as hell don’t need to hear your _lover’s spat_ -”

Both men flinched away when he released a reverberating growl.

 _Why_ does the fucking whole world keep on conspiring against him? He never gets the fucking space he needs!

“All of you fucking people _get back to work_! And _don’t_ peep in!” he shrilled at his co-workers. All of them shuddered in fright and whirled around, scurrying to their respective work sites. “As for him, I’ll deal with him _myself_ -”

  
“Seb? What is going on here?” a fragile whisper sounded from behind him.

A flash of dread crept down his spine. He pursed his lips in displeasure at the outcome of his situation, clenching his fists in agitation. With a few measured intakes of breath, he closed his eyes and exhaled audibly through his nose, calmly seeking out the centre of his control. As the last few seconds passed by, he opened his eyes again, slowly turning around, facing away from the other two men. His gaze met the weary face of his leanly-built partner, who was desperately clinging on to the front straps of his leather messenger bag, his knuckles white with the strength of the grip he was applying to it. He observed the dishevelled state of the smaller man, feeling a small pang of guilt at being the apparent cause of his internal conflict. The other man fidgeted at the weight of his scrutiny, before he spoke up again.

“You...weren’t responding to my calls, so I figured if it was okay if I just dropped by to check on you. You seemed out of sorts even over the phone,” his partner whispered in a brittle tone. “Will...you tell me what’s going on, and more importantly, why the hell everyone seems to be yelling at each other...for no reason at all?”

All at once, the tension and the violent urges evaporated from his body. Exhaling audibly, he stepped closer to the smaller man, who observed him with wary eyes. Nevertheless, his partner bravely stood his ground. His fingers twitched at the urge to reach out and trace the length of his thumb down the side of his neck, but he restrained the desire.

“We’ll talk about this when we get back, alright, babe?” he replied softly, his eyes softening at the vulnerability currently present in his partner’s body language. He reached out and caressed the back of his hand, leaning in to whisper. “Do you see the man behind me?”

“Yeah. What...about him?” he replied softly, the smaller man unconsciously leaning into him. His mate slowly reached out a tremoring hand, forming a tight fist as the smaller man grabbed on the bunch of clothing, using it as a balance. “An ex-lover of yours?”

John felt a flash of virulent spite at the self-loathing tone that his mate adopted as he uttered the last sentence. He leaned closer to the smaller man, allowing a faint trace of the growl to escape his throat. “No, _never_.”

His partner exhaled sharply, a sound that came dangerously close to a poorly-restrained sob that threatened to break forth from his control. “But, Dawson -”

  
“Dawson was an ass for insinuating that, baby,” his lips pulled briefly into a snarl, before he smothered the expression from his face. “That man behind me...he’s _nothing_ to me. An unwanted face from my past. _That’s all_. If he approaches you - or anyone else that you don’t know - for any reason at all, I want you to run and hide. Run and hide, and don’t look back. I’m telling you this because I wanna protect you, babe, and not scare ya, alright?” he pulled back a little, before leaning in to nose against his partner’s cheek. He can smell the tension evaporating away from his mate. “Get back in the car and wait for me, okay? We’ll talk about this later, I promise.”

James drew in a shaky breath, before nodding vigorously. “Alright. Alright. I’ll...wait for you,” his voice cracked.

“Hey, hey, easy there, baby,” he nuzzled against the smaller man’s cheek. _“Shh_. It’s gonna be alrigh’. It’s gonna be fine.”

  
“Just, please, settle this,” the man pleaded quietly, going lax in his grip. “Settle it. I’ll...I’ll wait in the car. Just, don’t take long, alright?”

  
“I won’t, I promise. That’s my man,” he pressed his lips against the other man’s cheek, before retreating from his presence.

He ignored the wounded look that was sent his way.

* * *

Sebastian "Logan" Moran was an electrician, a modest one after quietly getting his credentials from a nearby trade school. He barely managed to graduate from his high school marks alone, but Sebastian "Logan" Moran did right by his parent when he came home one day and walked through the front porch with a large smug smile on his face, as he held out his degree proudly and paraded it in front of his father. Sebastian "Logan" Moran was the son of a single father and raised in the rural outskirts of the Grand Prairie provinces of Canada, before the both of them decided to move out and move closer to the heart of urban life.

Sebastian "Logan" Moran was a gruff, albeit, trustworthy man with uncompromising morals and principles. He was a family man, a provider, and a dedicated partner to anyone he chose to be attached to. It was a rare gift, he knew, to be able to earn the right to a proper mate that he could not only devote most of energy and attention to, but also have them marked as his own in the fleeting life as a human. Sebastian "Logan" Moran may have a questionable past, but never let it be said that he was an unprincipled man. He kept his word, and he did right by them.

Shortly after getting his credentials qualifying him to work as a full-time, independent electrician, he enlisted in the Army and fought in the Afghanistan and Syrian campaigns. While he was honorably discharged soon after, it wasn’t without walking away with a multitude of awards that recognised his service for his countrymen and country. After the war, Sebastian "Logan" Moran eventually decided that he couldn’t settle back into his old life of quiet solitude that he had grown up with in the Prairies and soon opted to move into the city, working a part-time job as a construction worker. It was a bit of pinch, but he managed to work his charms with his old network contacts and they managed to get him landed on the open spot.

The quiet, tranquil origins of Sebastian "Logan" Moran’s life stood in sharp and painful contrast to John Watson’s past. Nevertheless, he still clung deeply into the fabricated history associated with his alias. He may have a fake detailed history of his own new name, but it doesn’t mean that his morals and his own unique sense of self were flushed down the drain just because of a few rough patches.

Sebastian "Logan" Moran was still John Watson. He was still John Watson. He will forever be that person that will be associated with those particular picks of names. Apart from his name and fabricated history, he was still the same man that he always knew he was. Because he would be damned if he started compromising his core values for the sake of a few selfish people that wanted nothing more than to take away the things he worked so fucking hard to earn.

He doesn't care if the healthcare system extended his life for another two to five years. He doesn't care that his number of days are counted. He doesn't care that it is dwindling, one by day, each day, each hour, each minute, each second.  
  
John Watson is dead. John Watson isn't coming back.  
  
On the other hand, Sebastian "Logan" Moran still exists. And he will make every second count.

“I’m not coming back,” he spoke softly, but with a firm hint of steel. John stood his ground calmly, assuming a power pose as the man in front of him continued gazing at him challengingly, displeasure written plainly on his face. “It’s funny that you still assume you can always get your way in everything. You haven’t learned, have you?”

The detective clasped his hands behind his back, staring down at him through the edge of his chiseled nose. The man tilted his head slightly in a mocking posture, eyes glinting shrewdly. “And you will discard me, your friends, your past, for all this?” he lifted one hand and gestured openly and vaguely at the place. John saw the hints of a scornful sneer. “Drop the act, John. You’ve had your chance at playing for a while, but now, all of that stops.”

The man was obviously laying out a gambit here, designed to raise his ire. Shame really, because he saw through it all long ago. The man before him was something that he was intimately acquainted with. He won’t be fooled that easily anymore. Sebastian "Logan" Moran, like John Watson, always possessed their own brand of venom underneath the veneer of civility and averageness.

Noticing the gambit was the first step.

Breaking the pattern, was the second safest and most effective route to take.

“ _Then kill me_ ,” he intoned, lowering his blink rate to gaze penetratingly through the man in front of him. He felt a flash of gratification when the detective flinched, evidently caught off guard by his choice of statements. “Because I sure as hell ain’t walking away from everything I built for myself in this country. Especially not James.”

James. That man’s name always pressed at just the right places. It was always his ace card, hidden up his sleeves. A more sensitive and moral part of himself rebuked him for using his partner’s name as a protective barrier from the man’s advances in front of him. Albeit, he really couldn’t bring himself to care because at this point, his mind and attention has already been primed to do one thing and one thing only - _endure and survive, at all costs._ He will endure and survive, and he will hunt them down if they get in his way. And if they go after James? He will stalk their families and shear them apart to a tantalising and demonstrative shower of crimson and human innards, all the while forcing them to watch.

He is purely _hellbent_ on survival.

“You can be charged with fraudulent offences, John. And the alternative will leave you with no choice but to come forward,” the detective pursed his lips. Even after months since he last took the time to practice his deductive skills, he knew that he was already winning the game when he saw the man desperately trying to hide the wounded look he was practically flashing at him. “I’d rather not see that happen. It is tedious, you see.”

This bastard never learns, does he? For an ironically intelligent and erudite human, he is blind as a bat.

“Good luck with that,” he chortled, his cheeks pinching in fatigue as he kept his grinning expression for far too long. “You clearly have no idea what it’s like to really go against someone like me, don’t you?”

“What do you mean?” the man had the gall to raise his eyebrow. “Do not be foolish to think that empty threats will work on me, John.”

Survivors are not something anyone should think of contending with. He is a survivor, and survivors do whatever it takes to get what they want. To avoid what they don’t want. An unmatched set of hostility and ruthlessness. It is a deadly effective set of traits that made them the top predators of their class. Having them as an ally made you unstoppable. Having them as your enemy made them an unrelenting force of nature to deal with, especially when they have nothing else to lose.

But the issue is, he does have something to lose. But he’ll be damned if he lets that stop him from doing what he needs to do.

He released a dark chuckle, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "First of all, you little shit, it's _Logan_ ," he tilted his head slightly, mirroring the other man’s earlier move. He saw the brief flicker of hurt that passed over the other man’s face. “And secondly, let me tell you something, fucker. People like me are _capable -_ you heard me right,  _capable -_ of doing whatever it takes, _whatever it takes,_ to get something they desperately want. The more you try to take it away from us, the more you have something to lose in return,” he lectured in a deliberate take at a haughty tone. “When you do that, it is essentially a war of attrition with people like me. The more you push to make us lose, the more you lose from your side. But the clincher?”

He drew his head back, eyeing him impassively. “The clincher is this - we are more than capable of outlasting you. Don't _even_ think of starting a war you know you can't win. Seriously, drop it. Even if you think of hitting us where it hurts the worst, you still stand to lose more than you gain. There is nothing worse than losing, not when you came oh so close to winning, ain’t it?” he raised his eyebrows mockingly. He smirked when the detective flashed another microexpression of agony. The other man made to interject the conservation but he spoke again, cutting him off effectively. “ _No_ , I won’t warn you again. Leave us alone, and you won’t hear from me. _It’s not a compromise. It’s a warning.”_

“You think I would drag you back to London by force?” he whispered. John smelled a hint of vulnerability. “You’re misunderstanding me, John.”

“That shit won’t work on me, you stupid piece of shit, “ he smiled dangerously. “I’ve had enough of that. From you, from everyone else.”

  
The detective flared his nostrils, clenching his hands. “I won’t allow you. I will never allow you to slip past my notice again, John,” he clenched his jaws, eyes betraying a wounded hurt. “I... _will_ respect your wishes... _Logan_. However, if you vanish in a similar fashion as last time, _I will find you_. And I will haul you back myself, if it means that you will see reason.”

  
Oh, by the way, didn’t he mention? He probably failed to mention the most important aspect about his kind.

“ _The day that happens is the day that you will be hauling my dead carcass back even as you pull my dead body halfway across the world_ ,” he grinned. The other man’s eyes shuttered close in inner agony as the words washed over his ears. “I’m pretty sure you’ll look stupid and suspiciously guilty, but hey, not my problem anymore by that point, right? My only request? They - _you -_  leave me alone, finally, in death. Unless of course you find a way to upset someone I care about,” he wiped the manic grin from his face. “then and only then will I return from the dead and kill you all.”

The detective remained quiet, in apparent acceptance of his defeat. The man swallowed and looked away, gazing into the ground.

“If that’s all, then please, leave and hop back on the next plane back to that accursed continent of yours. I’m late for a dinner and I might have to pin the blame on you for getting me locked out of my own damn house,” he smiled lightly, ignoring the blatant vulnerability hovering around the room. “Either way, that’s your cue to leave. In case it wasn’t obvious that your presence is no longer desired here.”

 


	4. Hurt

_**There are cemeteries that are lonely,** _   
_**graves full of bones that do not make a sound,** _   
_**the heart moving through a tunnel,** _   
_**in it darkness, darkness, darkness,** _   
_**like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,** _   
_**as though we were drowning inside our hearts,** _   
_**as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.** _

_**And there are corpses,** _   
_**feet made of cold and sticky clay,** _   
_**death is inside the bones,** _   
_**like a barking where there are no dogs,** _   
_**coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,** _   
_**growing in the damp air like tears of rain.** _

_**\- Pablo Neruda, "Only Death"** _

* * *

**[[THEME SONG OF THE CHAPTER]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FywSzjRq0e4) **

* * *

**Toronto, Ontario**

The sweltering heat proliferating through his back roused him from his fever-ridden dream. A burst of fatigue welled up in his constricted chest, and a sigh bubbled forth from his lips. His neck muscles quivered and he allowed his jaws to grow lax, agape. It felt like a python had slithered inside his lungs and was now actively trying to fight its way out through his trachea. It twisted and roiled and he exhaled sharply. He cracked open his eyelids, his parched tongue slithering out to lick the cracked edges of his dried lips. The motion from beneath his chin snapped him into awareness, and the muscles in between his shoulder blades locked together in anticipation.

The delicate and sharp scent of his mate stung his nose, and his neck muscles slowly untangled themselves from their knots. He gently allowed his strained neck to go limp as he settled his head back on to the pillows, eyes closed. The python in his lungs ceased thrashing and he inhaled slowly, deeply, unrushed. He swallowed, and wearily tilted his chin inwards to his throat, cracking open his eyelids again. The uncouth arrangement of crow-hued hair exploded into his view, and he took some time to sit still, observing, allowing the stillness and prominence of the present moment to ground him.

He flexed his dry hands, raising them slowly, his fingers gently skittering across the smooth, unblemished rosy skin. He traced his left hand past the delicate roundedness and curve of his collarbones. He stopped at the junction of his mate's neck, gently pressing his thumb atop the skin layer that shielded the strong pulsations of the carotid artery. His nerve endings tingled with every intake of breath, with every rush of blood past his fingers. It undulated with perfect frequencies. The mathematical accuracy of it gutted him.

He leaned closer, nuzzling the edge of his nose further into the mess of human hair. The skin on his arms tingled as it hungrily drank on the warmth of another's body within his arms, and he avariciously imprinted the memory into his mind. His leaner-built mate shuddered and burrowed deeper into the warmth provided by his defined musculature. He eagerly provided it.

 

_I hurt myself today_  
_To see if I still feel_

 

"Wha'r ya thinkin', Logan . . . ?"

 

He closed his eyes, his arms stiffening around the warmth of his mate's delicate build. His fatigue swirled around the back of his head. His mate's ears were flush against his quivering sternum, and he knew that his mate must've woken to the uneven pattern of his cardiac activity. His eyes darted to the bedside table, squinting against the dark. The digital clock was a more diligent timekeeper than the two of them.

 

_5:35 AM_

 

"What makes ya think I'm thinkin' 'bout anythin', baby?" he whispered.

 

Did he even think nowadays?

 

Was there any point?

 

His ears pricked against the huff of annoyance, muffled by his broad chest. His lips twitched. "I know you better than anyone, mister. You're just blustering, Logan, and I know it," his mate sounded more awake now. He slowly relaxed his grip around his mate.

 

He chuckled. A pang filled his chest. "That is true. That is so . . . fucking true. It is."

 

"Come on, spill it. What is it?" his mate snorted into his chest, exhaling.

 

Exactly. What was it? What was there to talk about?

 

Was there something he wanted to talk about?

 

_I focus on the pain_  
_The only thing that's real_

 

He didn't even remember. Let alone know.

 

His mind was betraying him.

 

Was it?

 

"I've . . . always loved that name. Logan," he nuzzled into his mate's sleep-tousled hair. "For as . . . long as I remembered, it fit me better than what my parents named me."

 

_'John Watson, such a common name,'_ he added as an afterthought. _'But to the right people, it meant something. I hope_.'

 

His mate stilled, as if gently coaxing him to continue.

 

"Simple, common, but it worked for me," he stated simply. "'Little hollow', is what it meant. I bet ya never knew about that, didn't you?"

 

_The needle tears a hole_  
_The old familiar sting_  
_Try to kill it all away_  
_But I remember everything_

 

His abdominal muscles quivered slightly as his mate's delicate hand slithered free from his embrace and slowly ran up his stomach, his fingers lightly grazing the clothed skin. His ears pricked when his mate exhaled slowly, as if in trepidation. "No. I, uh, never knew that," his mate replied softly. " . . . but, I do agree that it fits you. Besides, I liked calling you Logan as opposed to the mean old Sebastian. I mean, I only call you that when I know you're being hard with me. Or, if you're not making sense," his mate teased.

 

'Sebastian' didn't even exist.

 

He swallowed, closing his eyes. He tilted his head down, nuzzling back into his mate's tousled hair. "It's all good, baby. Call me whatever ya like. I'm not complainin'."

 

"You never do, that's the point," the younger man snorted. "I always do the complaining. You do the listening and the adjusting part of this relationship."

 

_What have I become_  
_My sweetest friend_

_Everyone I know_  
_Goes away in the end_

 

A relationship ain't a relationship when it's built on sand.

 

_'Can't I have this, for once?'_

 

"Like you are doing now?" he smiled against his mate's hair, ignoring the throbbing pang reverberating through his chest. "I'm guessing my refractory period has to improve. Otherwise you might start complaining 'bout my age sooner or later."

 

He received an indignant squawk as a reaction. He smiled again. "Seriously, Logan, I swear," the smaller man hissed, muffled as he directed the entirety of his embarassment at his chest. "You're such an ass."

  
"It's true that I am an ass man," he lowered the tenor of his voice. "I can't help it. Be grateful more, yeah, baby?"

  
"Seriously though, Logan, stop beating around the bush," his mate sighed, struggling to free himself from his embrace. Exhaling with fond exasperation, he unwound his arms from the leanly-built man and retreated his head back, allowing the younger man to gaze up at him. "What's going on with you?"

  
Was there something going on?

  
Why does his mate always imply there was something going on that he was not privy to? Why was there always this pervasive need to be suspicious?

  
Why just not let things to simply, be? Things simply be?

  
Why can't he just untangle the fucking bag of snakes?

  
". . . you know there's nothing else for me that I can say to you, baby. I already told you everything I could," he told him softly.

  
Liar.

  
That's right, he's always been a liar.

  
He really needs to stop being a human.

  
It's hurting everything around him.

 

_And you could have it all_  
_My empire of dirt_  
_I will let you down_  
_I will make you hurt_

  
Cerulean eyes shuttered slightly as a flash of suspicion flitted past those beloved irises, before it vanished. He felt a prick of hurt flutter in his stomach. ". . . no, I think you're lying, Logan. No, no, that's the wrong word for it," his partner's voice slowly gained more strength as he ventured on, undeterred. "I *know* you are lying. I just . . . don't understand, why. Why?"

Yeah, why? Why not? Why does he?

  
Because he has to. Because, the alternative is not acceptable.

  
He extricated himself from his mate's grip, his arms slipping away from his mate's waist as he stiffly turned on to lie on his other side. With one hand flat against the mattress, he stiffly pushed against it, raising himself to a seating position at the edge of his side of the bed. He closed his eyes, sighing, shoulders sagging. Without his meaning to, an embittered and cynical chuckle rattled forth from the base of his throat. It reverberated and echoed across the bedroom. His mate flinched at the sound, and it only encouraged the seed of bitterness to flourish within his stomach.

 

_I wear this crown of thorns_  
_Upon my liars chair_  
_Full of broken thoughts_  
_I cannot repair_

What was the point? Was there any other point?

  
His chest spasmed. He hunched over, gasping for breath.

  
So, this is what retribution looked like? His body, betraying him?

  
His adamantium bones and his titanium heart, giving way.

  
What would be left of him, of his legacy, after all this?

  
His partner choked, a strained sound of astonishment escaping from his throat. The bed shifted as he felt his mate crawling, ever so slowly, to close the gap between them. Another pang seized his chest. "It's happening again, isn't it? It's getting worse," his partner whispered hoarsely. "Logan, please."

 

'Please' was not something he had the privilege to keep.

 

_Beneath the stains of time_  
_The feelings disappear_  
_You are someone else_  
_I am still right here_

  
He craned his head to the side, looking at the stalwart analog clock.

  
_6:15 AM_

  
He had work to do.

  
No, his mate needs this. He will not deny his partner anything.

  
Even if it hurts his mate in the short-term, he knew that he was doing the both of them a favour.

  
He's a dying breed.

  
He inhaled slowly, steeling himself. "It'll be better for the both of us if you moved on, James," he forced out in between breaths. "I ain't gonna last long. And I intend to keep it that way."

 

_What have I become_  
_My sweetest friend_  
_Everyone I know_  
_Goes away in the end_

  
He startled into awareness as sharp fingers digged into the dried skin of his forearms. Warmth flooded his back as his mate's torso collided against his back. The sharp line of his mate's nose dug into his spinal column. " _I am not going to let this go without a fight, Logan._ You. Are. Not. Going," the other man growled. He winced as the sharp pitch sliced through his ears. "You are not! I don't care. I don't care about what comes," the younger man's voice broke at the end. His chest seized painfully. "I don't care, Logan. I don't care. Just, don't give up. Please don't. Please, don't. Please. _Please."_

  
_"This is what life looks like, people who love each other, a home. You should take a moment, feel it. You still have time."_

  
The fight in his body left him long ago.

  
He no longer had anything left to lose.

  
What was one more person? One more life?

  
One more life that could've been something more?

  
Logan wasn't selfish. He already had the chance to live it out, small and brief as it was.

  
This was all that he ever wanted.

  
This was all that he would ever need.

  
And he got it.

  
What was there to grieve about?

  
"Fine. For your sake," he replied, hoarsely. "For your sake, I would do it. For you, I would."

  
Still, he lies.

 

_And you could have it all_  
_My empire of dirt_  
_I will let you down_  
_I will make you hurt_

_If I could start again_  
_A million miles away_  
_I will keep myself_  
_I would find a way_

 

 


	5. Rebirth

 

_**“We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.”** _

_**\- Charles Bukowski** _

* * *

  **[[THEME SONG OF THE CHAPTER]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yFfUh-lSC_w)**

* * *

 

**Calgary, Alberta**

 

The bitter sting of the alcohol was a sweet experience that his throat has missed in a long while. The rimmed edge of the glass was cold and non-judgemental as he gulped down another round of the substance. He raised it to eye level, eyelids shuttered at half-mast as he rotated his wrist, observing the swirling solution as it bubbled. A hostile sound emanated from his throat and he exhaled. The glass produced a flinty echo across the bar, penetrating the dense layers of silence that has been keeping him company for the past few hours.

He raised a calloused hand off the mahogany surface of the bar, his palms scraping over the short, coarse facial hair at the edges of his face. The man exhaled another heavy bout of breath and he scratched his neck. His eyes gazed down at the subtle twitch on his left hand. The grizzled man narrowed his eyelids at the accursed thing as it twitched again. As if in rebellion, his left hand twitched again. The man cursed himself.

Little annoyances, again. But it keeps him occupied.

 

Keeps his mind off something. Anything.

 

Does it really matter? Does anything else matter?

 

No, James couldn't see him like this. Shouldn't.

 

He shouldn't see how far he's fallen.

  
_I'm sorry, sir. But the tumors . . . are not responding well to chemotherapy. It's as if they are mutating to actually counter it. Radiation will not help in this stage either, Mr. Moran. It will deliver too much damage to other internal organs," they said. "We have never seen something like this before. This is the first time that we've seen cancer cells responding like this. I'm sorry, sir. But at this stage, there is absolutely nothing that we can do for you. We have put you through all possible clinical trials. There is nothing left that we can do, I'm afraid."_

  
" _At the current rate of mutation by your cells, you have an estimated five months of life expectancy," they said. "I'm sorry. We are more than happy to make any accommodations for you if you wish, and for your partner as well. It is the least that we can do."_

  
That was just yesterday.

  
Fuckin' yesterday.

  
_"What the hell happened to the five years on my life? Where the hell did it go then, doctor?"_ his past self growled. " _Tell. Me."_

  
He scoffed, drawing his broad shoulders together. The calloused pads of his fingers dug into the fragile glass that still contained his alcohol. He raised his arm and rested his elbow on the even surface of the bar table, hand curled as he raised the glass. The grizzled man tilted his head, a one-sided smile pulling on his mouth. "Fuck you too, bub," he grinned. "Fuck you too."

 

He downed the rest of the substance, forcing his throat to shuttle in the rest of the alcohol into his system. The glass screeched as he brought it down to rest on the bar. The man inhaled deeply, feeling his muscles unknot as the familiar sting of the alcohol settling into his head. He exhaled again and the blood vessels in his brain expressed its warm gratitude to him.

  
"Fuck you and your diagnosis," he muttered. "Fuck it all to hell."

 

So,  _this_ is what it feels like.

  
"You're drinking again, _Logan._ I thought you were past that."

 

  
Fuck, does it really surprise everyone?

  
Where is the fucking surprise in drinking yourself to death?

  
It's not like it's worth a damn.

  
And besides, what's up with the past?

  
Why the hell does everyone else get a fucking ass kick out of sneaking up on him?

  
Do they have some kind of masochistic kink he didn't know about? Is that why they like to provoke him? So that he can fuck them in the tight little hole of theirs?

  
The man behind him stepped closer. "A year ago, you asked for a miracle. You wanted everyone around you to notice your pain. You wanted to cry out for help, but you didn't. And now, you so desperately want to do just that, and yet, you won't," the man gently remarked. He gripped the glass, and a slight crack formed at the rim of it. "I can't help you . . . not really, if you're not going to talk. I was always there. All you had to do was ask."

  
What will it take? _What does it take?_

  
What do they want?

  
What. Do. They. Want.

  
The man snapped into action. He curled his hand around the glass and hurled it at the wall behind the other man. The object whistled sharply past his ears as he released the glass. The glass shattered and exploded into a thousand different small pieces of shards. The shards fell on the floor, producing a hostile sound that has permanently replaced the tranquility of the place.

  
The other man swayed on his feet as he flinched at the proximity of the glass. He craned his head to face him, and even in the dark, the war veteran could clearly see the agony that the other man was facing. His eyes were widened in astonishment and his pupils dilated in fear, his face a canvas of human agony. The other man's throat bobbed as he swallowed.

  
"So, you missed me, huh? Everyone else, _really_?" he scoffed. "You actually speak for _them_ ?  You know what, at this point, I really could care less about what you do, and where you go. If it really cools down your prick at night to follow me around wherever I go, _fine,"_ he tossed a glance to the side. "Go ahead, get the fucking records from my doctor. Pass it on to the boss."

  
The man looked pained. "You know I would never do that," he replied softly.

  
Did he now?

  
Last he checked, Mycroft loved that.

  
Meddling in people's affairs. Manipulating them.

  
"Pinochio's nose doesn't get shorter no matter how many times he tells the truth, bub," he snarled. " _Facts are facts_. If I live, I live. If I die, I die. It doesn't change anythin'. And no amount of intervening on your part is going to change that."

  
The other man closed his eyes. "We are really not that different in terms of what we are going through right now."

  
Does it look like he actually did?

  
The guts of this fucker.

  
"My life is the exact opposite of 'freedom'. For a large part of my life, people around me tried their fucking hardest to keep me on my toes and incapable of doing anything for myself," he lowered his voice. "My life? If you lived it, I guarantee you that it _would've broken you_. So, _don't_ go around telling me that you have it harder than me. And, that you feel entitled to my forgiveness just because you went overseas for the last few years and tried to . . . what? Protect me? Fucking hell you did that. No one was protected from anythin', bub. Shit still happens, no matter how much you wished it didn't."

  
"I . . . don't expect anything from you. I know that much. But, to accept loss is, at the same time, something I . . . know full well that also goes against your nature. _You are dying, and you want to die_ ," the other man swallowed, blatantly pained. His voice sounded dry and hoarse. "You think it is the only answer you have left. You rationalised it, as perhaps being the only way that you can retain your sanity. It is normal to grieve. Of course, it's a . . . natural human tendency. However, submitting to your grief is another level. All lives end, all hearts are broken. _But_ , in that remaining time, the question you also should be asking is this - what do you have left that you need to do? Your remaining time is a gift. You cannot afford to waste it on things that are long past."

  
There was nothing he could say to that.

  
But like always, he was a human.

  
And as long as he remained human, he would always find a way to hurt.

  
Hurting was the most normal, most human thing to do.

  
A recourse for dying breeds.

  
This was his legacy.

  
Hurting people. Leaving them broken.

  
It seemed like eons ago. Happiness was now a distant light on the horizon.

  
He doesn't have the time to fix it.

  
He doesn't care. He is so tired, so weary.

 

"It is _better_ this way. Bad shit always happened to me. Why should it be different now? There is nothing left for me to do. I have nothing else in mind that I should do, for others, for me. I have been selfless all my life. I think it's fucking time for me to be selfish, for once," he replied wearily. "I don't even know what the hell you get out of this. I'm dying, Sherlock. _I'm dying_. There is no way around it. Get out of here. There's nothing for you here."

 

He never sounded so weary as he did now.

  
For once, the man didn't argue.

  
How far had they fallen, together.

  
The universe did like to achieve symmetry, after all.

* * *

  
A week ago, Life was selfish. Life was stingy. It didn't want him to have the things he wanted, the future he dreamt of, the luxuries that he once salivated after. A year ago, Fate was cruel. Fate was sadistic. It wanted to destroy the remaining symmetry in his life. It took away his balance, his sanity, and plunged him close to the point of singularity before pulling him back from the black hole of his inner demons. Life and Fate, a psychopathic group of entities, thought it was a good idea to twist him around and watch him suffering through the throes of his grief.

  
A week ago, his world fell apart. A week ago, he would've snarled at the next person that would've told him to snap the hell out of his depression and get the fuck on with life. It sounded like what he would've done. What John would've done. What Logan would've done. Seven days, since he had the chance to actually come forward with the truth about his condition to James.

  
A week ago - it felt like ages since that week has passed.

  
He would've felt bad. He had always hated being human.

  
Being human meant that he was selfish.

  
Being human meant that he was reckless.

  
Being human meant that he would've hurt others.

  
Oh, how wrong was he.

  
After living under the protection of darkness, the taste of hope was bittersweet.

  
Oh so sweet.

* * *

  
"Hello there, Logan. I see life has been treating you well."

  
"Fuck off, bub. Nothing to see here."

  
"I'm afraid that's not true now, is it?"

  
"What do you want?"

  
The man smiled. It was sharp enough to cut through rocks. "Nothing at all, Logan. But, I do come with an offer."

  
"Please. I heard the same sales talk before. Get out of my sight."

  
"I guarantee you it's not the same, _Mr. Watson_."

  
Logan froze.

  
The man smiled, as if he smelled his surprise. "I am a representative involved with a private organization dedicated to helping people like you reintegrate back to society. We know that people like you don't tolerate bullshit well, even at this stage, so I am going to just get straight to the point," the man settled in the chair in front of him. He glared, tempted to snarl. "What would you do, what would you give, to live again?"

  
"Does it look like I am dead, Agent Smith? Last I checked, I'm still breathing air," he scoffed, sneering.

  
"And at the same time, you're a dead man walking, Mr. Moran," the man smiled eerily. His head tilted in a reptilian manner. "What if we told you that you have a chance at a cure for your terminal diagnosis?"

  
_...what?_

  
What in fucking hell?

  
This is another fucking joke, isn't it?

  
He scoffed, ignoring the pang in his chest. He raised his glass, gulping down another round of the substance. The familiar sting soon reached his head. "Terminal means 'dead soon', bub."

  
"Soon enough, but not yet. There _is_ a stark difference, Logan," the man replied without missing a beat.

  
What the hell does this man want?

  
"What the hell do you want from me, fucker? I don't have anythin' on me that you would want," he sneered.

  
"I don't want anything from you, Logan. Nothing at all. Except for you to consider my offer."

  
"Yeah, it's bullshit, Smith. No one has science that advanced yet," he scoffed, gulping down another round of alcohol.

  
"But you're hoping on it already. I can see it in your eyes," the man shot back. "You don't want to die. You still want to live. It's not bad to want to admit that."

  
_"Get out of my face_ ," he snarled. "I don't like being told the same _old shit_ over and over and over again. I heard it plenty enough, fella. Get the fuck out."

  
"You'd want to consider it, Logan. Have a nice evening," the man smiled, before evacuating the bar.

  
In front of him, was a business card.

  
A means of contact.

  
He glared at the offending thing.

  
Black, of all colours. It just had to be black.

* * *

  
A week ago, his world fell apart.

  
A week after, his world changed.

  
What the fucking hell was up with his life?

  
Sometimes, Logan swore it had bipolar tendencies.

* * *

Every neuron, every bundle of tissue fibre, every inch of everything he ever stood for - it quivered underneath the weight of the volcanic pressure and scalding agony flooding his blood vessels. His cardiac muscles, his heartstrings, they were all screeching and thrashing as if they were seized by a type of madness that was incurable. His corpus callosum was thickening, further emphasizing the connection and receptivity of his cells to the bouts of agony. Calf muscles seized and vibrated with the aftershocks of the electricity. His chest and abdomen quivered as he desperately gasped for breath. He opens his eyes, and his sight was only enshrouded by one shade of crimson.

The sharp pinpricks of needles drilled into his bones and burrowed into the soft tissues of his marrows. The tendons in his neck jutted out and he thrashed, rearing back his head. His chest tightened and a muffled screech coursed through his throat. A flood of cold fear made its home inside his heart. Another bout of agony seized his body and the cycle repeats.

  
With sheer will of mind, he opened his eyes. A primal, guttural sound reverberated through the glassed case of water that he was submerged in. He craned his head, lashing out against the sides of the glass case. A slight crack appeared in the glass. He would've been surprised, but his attention drifted away from it as another bout of electricity flooded the water.

  
His bone marrows cried underneath the weight of the trial.

  
Why wasn't he dead yet?

  
" _What did you do to me?!"_ he screeched." _What did you do?! TELL ME!"_

  
The density of the water muffled his outrage. "Subject X-24 is responding well to the treatment, but the gene is not close to being activated yet. We cannot proceed to the next stage of treatment unless that is done first."

  
"Ramp up the voltage. I have no doubt it will kick in soon."

  
"Yes, sir," they concurred.

  
He surrendered to the realm of Morpheus.

* * *

  
The sting of soot reached his olfactory receptors, and he breathed it in. Dust and the remnants of sandy debris swirled into the air around him, echoing the remains of the aftermath of the incident that transpired. The subject crawled forward on the ground, ignoring the ashes of the other test subjects around him that did not survive the incident. With great force, he burrowed his fingers into the soft ground underneath the pads of his fingers, curling them inwards. Pulling his upper lips back into a sneer, the subject craned his neck to gaze around the debris.

  
He gazed up at the skies. The smoke rising from the dying fires of the incident shrouded much of the cerulean expansiveness above him. He gazed back down on the ground, closing his eyes. His ribcage spasmed and he gasped for breath as the oxygen inside him was brutally pushed out of his system by his contracting diaphragm.

  
A wave of agony seized him.

  
"No, no, _no_!" he screamed.

  
When he raised his hand, he flinched at the rich hue of crimson that left a trail of marks on the ground.

  
It was impossible. The results were impossible.

  
What the hell happened to him?

  
What the hell did they do?

  
The richness of the oxygen shocked him as he inhaled it. The deftness and agility of his body was at a level that he hasn't remembered feeling since he was at the height of his prime. He noticed more subtle details about his environment than he did before - a level of awareness that left him confounded. The sturdiness in his body, its strength - he missed it, and now, he had it again. He feels younger than he felt in many an age.

  
"What the hell?" he whispered hoarsely.

  
He stumbled as flashes of memory flitted across his mind.

  
The milky warmth of someone's skin. The soft cotton texture of their bedding. The maddening scent of his mate, his signature scent - an incongruent mixture of chamomile, Earl Grey, and chocolate. How his partner's scent would change after a rough tryst in the shower. The salty scent of his bodily fluids on his mate. The bitter taste of his mate's tears after a soul-sapping argument about his condition. The bitter knife of disappointment when he indulged in his greatest foe and greatest friend's company - his alcoholism.

  
Another set of memories flooded him.

  
The thrill in the veins that he once felt. The smell of moisture on the streets of London. The musky scent of Baker Street. The tangy smell of Earl Grey permeating the flat, the fried smell of Thai takeaway. The addictive high of dopamine and serotonin, after a thrilling chase through the devious alleyways and small cracks of space in between different buildings of urban London. The raw, back-breaking agony of loss. The heart-rending sensation of betrayal. The volcanic swirl of rage, and bitterness. The weariness that penetrated through to his bone marrows.

  
There were two men in his life. One from another life, the other in his current life. They seemed like distinct entities in the past, but now, the memories are blurring together. Past, present, future. There was no longer any divide. He had walked down two different paths in this life. He met the same people, and how foolish was he think otherwise that he could escape. That he could bury one road and walk on to the other path.

  
His bitterness over the past seemed like eons ago. He never realized the extent of the hollowness and bitterness that he has allowed to percolate within him, until now.

  
They were both one and the same history.

  
There was no distinction between the two lives.

  
His legacy was not meant to be riddled with pain.

  
His legacy was meant to be something more.

  
And now, the new enemies that he made will undoubtedly be going after them both.

  
After what happened in this place, they will be going after them both.

  
Certainly, and without abandon. With no remorse.

  
He is a human, and he will be selfish.

  
He is a human, and he will be determined.

  
He is a human, and being a human meant you never gave up.

  
This is all that he had. He'll be damned if this goes down the tubes.

  
As he raised his arms, the calculating gleam of the adamantium beta reflected his sentiments. The crimson liquid trailed down the sharpened edges, promising retribution.

* * *

In the end, forgiveness was not difficult.

  
There was nothing to forgive. There was nothing to remember.

  
Humans protected what was theirs. It was a natural instinct for humans to be avaricious of what they had. It was a survival mechanism.

  
Now, he understood. He would've done the same.

  
There's no living with a killing. There's no going back from it.

  
Right or wrong, it's a brand, a brand that sticks. There's no going back.


	6. The Wolverine

White particulates descended gently from the infinite expanse of white that plagued the cityscape of Calgary. The untamed nature of the arctic winter has settled in and made its home across the city, and its pent-up bitterness was unleashed on the asphalt roads. The air was thin and brittle, and the moist atmosphere allowed the headlights to appear ominous as the light refracted through the fog.

Bits of snow clung to the outer edges and soles of his Kodiak boots. They put up quite the opposition, and he grunted with hostility as he trudged through the snowy ocean. The wind attempted its best to induce chills through him but the feverish energy of his enhanced metabolism countered the remaining bite it had. The dismal weather retaliated in retribution by concealing immediate streetlights and buildings in the cold shroud of its arctic embrace.

The coiled potential of lethality possessed by the foreign metal element within his bones lurked beneath the layers of muscle fibres and epidermis. It stood by like a coiled viper, its sinewy lines both communicating both a generous dose of danger and protectiveness. Even as his blood flowed through the undulating vessels of his biology, he somehow knew in the most primitive parts of himself, that he hasn't walked away from that incident unchanged. The white noise of his cells screamed at the drastic shift in his identity. It was an interesting paradox, he thought.

He was 'John' and 'Logan'. He is also not one or the other. He is both. He is not both. It was like both identities are scalar multiples of the other. Reproducing the same output to infinity.

He is in London.

He is in Canada.

He possesses above-average intelligence.

And yet he is also a creature with strong, primal impulses.

He is an avaricious man.

He is selfless.

He is aware of his independence.

He is lying to himself.

The blood in his veins hissed in agreement. He winced.

He was akin to the alpha male wolf roaming the wilderness in search of a purpose. His former pack deserted him, betrayed him. They followed their inclinations. His mate, he left of his own accord. He turned on them, they turned on him. They turned on him, he turned on them.

The bitterness was returning with a vengeance. It was so easy to relent to the force of it. His primitive brain greedily held on to past wrongs. It was a beast he could not shake off. It matched him tooth for tooth, bite for bite, scratch for scratch. Rage had been percolating within his chest for years, and it is difficult letting go of an old faithful company.

He was his rage. He was his bane.

The greatest enemy that existed.

And as long as it existed, it would herald disaster and misfortune.

The echoes of his mate's name would haunt him forever if he clings on to it. The blood was not something he wanted to add to his dripping ledger of bloodied names. The whirlwind of carnage he unleashed upon the deceitful government personnel of the Weapon X program was not a stain he could wash off.

James was never his mate. And neither was he to James. Like the avaricious man he is regardless, he could not bring himself to regret their time, despite everything. He had this fill already. It was time to pass on the baton.

The earth was silent as he screamed his distress into the directionless and chaotic wind of the bitter cold. His rage roiled underneath his breastbone, scalding and raw. The horror of his actions and the conflict between his true identity produced a grotesque mass of fragmented shards and promoted a sense of disconnect from the world. His skin cried out for the warmth of a distant solar star. His lungs begged for the tranquil touch of spring's morning dew. His mind yearned for a period of respite it will never acquire.

And still his mortal vessel carries on.

For how long can a lonesome, alpha male such as him continue to drift into the uncouth expanse of the deep blue, with no rudder, and no anchor for the shredded remains of his tattered affections?

Is it a curse or a blessing to linger past one's time in the world?

It is a question many a folk pondered but that the Universe failed to answer.

A few days later, he booked himself a flight to Heathrow.

He blamed sentiment for still existing, sheltered away in the deep depths of his scarred heart.

* * *

_'You are so weary, stretched beyond measure,'_ the ethereal voice whispered in between his ears, a message from beyond the physical realm. _'Your heart has endured much, and so much more. You have lasted for so long. You have loved. You have hated. You have not forgiven. You have forgiven.'_

The calculating, adamantium beta in his blood hummed and pulsed with unnerving patience as the brittle air of the city flowed through the spaces between buildings and flats, further fuelling his urges. The ambient light of the street lamps produced a radial shower of photons when the incoming moisture refracted the wavelengths of light emanating from the bulbs. The ethereal orbs hovered above his head and seemed to follow him wherever he went. As he padded his way through the street, his gait remained steady and his footsteps retained their rhythm.

The lower half of his grizzled visage was shielded from the stinging wind, courtesy of his lengthening facial hair. The simplicity of his preferences led him to donning a plain set of dark jeans coupled with a thick plaid jacket that housed the grey shirt that he wore around his robust musculature. While his fondness for jumpers and long-sleeved shirts have not waned over the passage of time, he also took pleasure in finding peace in simple routine. This city had become alien to him in the past years. He felt like an outsider peering into a local culture of cells, dividing and reproducing genetic twins of itself, driven by an unseen algorithm. His primal senses were scratching and clawing at his ears and he felt this imminent sense of foreboding.

He raised a hand to the side of his neck, scratching the claw-like scars welted vividly by his carotid artery. As he rounded the next corner, he twisted his gaze and sharpened the edges of his gaze into a deceptively obscure arrangement of blocks and doors down the pavement.

 _'The air is twisted with grief, and the screams of the unheard permeate the place,'_ the Void whispered. _'Suffering happens behind these doors. Even now the stench and echoes of memories stain the legacy of this home.'_

It never was home.

 _'Two men lived here. They were a legend. Each was the polar opposite of the other. It was a level of genuinity not found elsewhere in this two-faced world,'_ the Void told. _'But like anything else, the corruption and greed spawned from Human Nature twisted it into something beyond recognition.'_

"- no! Please, not him -"

A frail, feminine cry piercing the lone, remorseless night. The thermal vibrations of overactive particles that were disturbed by the chaos of another voice. A blood-curdling screech of primal origin that bayed for retribution. The pulse of helplessness that vibrated through the night. The fierce and tumultyous surge of love and protectiveness that threatened to ignite and raze down everything in its path.

 _'The whales of the deep cry out for your sorrow, and echo back the agony of your losses,'_ the Void said.

The calculating energy of the adamantium beta morphed into the creature of primal fears. The edges of the element startled into awareness and surged forwards through layers of protective shelter. The apex sheared through bits of organic matter, hunger compounding with each length it travelled. It sang and hissed as the temperate air weaved around it, and the element pulled on thr leash containing its Hunger. The air shuddered at the weight of its wrath. The gleaming edges hurtled downwards with mad glee and wild abandon.

It sheared and devoured.

The bloodlust accumulated and it could not stop itself.

Consumption became its modus operandi.

Destruction was its call.

Death was its accomplice.

He won the Hunt.

An alpha male provides for his pack. He hunts and provides sustenance. The alpha protects and defends. He guards over the nest with watchful eyes. He preserves his genetic legacy.

"-what-" a gurgled mess of nearly incoherent words slipped past cracked lips that dripped a bright crimson. The quarry's neck muscle twitched and jerked as more crimson streamed out of the wounds.

The raptor's gaze met with the felled snake.

The raptor retracted its talons.

The snake plummeted to its demise.

The air around him shuddered and his ears pricked to the side as a nearly inaudible sound echoed through the space of the flat, shattering the silence. His arms went limp at his sides, seized by an unwordly weight, and he clenched his fingers. His face contorted to a snarl, his grizzled visage distorting into grotesque angles as he whipped around and patrolled the flat, hackles bristling. The infinitesimal world of his neurons were firing off at numerous instances and it pumped more adrenaline into system than the levels he needed.

His chest tightened as the red haze of his rampage receded into the depths where he caged his demons. The pricking and deplorable scent of the aftermath lingered in the air, suspended in space between a point of reality and unreality. He drank in the scent and a primal part of him stirred into awareness. Peering through the depths of the abyss, an otherwordly source of light glanced back at him. The hold on him was entrancing, hypnotic. It was akin to being suspended in a state with zero gravity.

Directionless. Aimless. Hopeless.

The Void.

It dwelled within him.

A high-pitched cackle pierced the air. The sound oscillated between low and high frequencies and stuttered into a few halts that only emphasized the oddness. The sound ricocheted within the walls, striking at the walls with the ferocity of a torpedo.

" _Oh!_ Haha! I can see why they are so _afraid_ of you, _now_ ," the voice dipped into a low, hoarse pitch. "You dealt a lot of damage. _How_ could I forget?"

He whipped around and bared his teeth, releasing a guttural growl. The crimson haze washed over his optic nerves and the adamantium's hunger returned to the forefront, bashing itself against its enclosure. The element snarled and whipped its abyssal maw around in a maniacal display. Cold air lapped at the crimson-tainted edges of his claws.

His injured quarry flashed a blood-tainted grin, before choking on the blood bubbling from his leaking trachea. "Don't you remember me, _Wolverine_?" onyx eyes glimmered with mischief. "You shared the same cell as I. Give my regards to Francis, pup, won't you? Glad to see both of us are still - _animals_."

The Void opened the abyssal maw of the leviathan dwelling in the depths and the shadows lurched outwards.

Adamantium claws rended through flesh and bone, spraying a tide of vermillion slithering though the air. The wooden floorboards groaned at the onslaught of his fury as he bore down his earthly weight on his downed quarry, canines grinding as he amplified the force channeled through his thick arms. Thick tendrils of energy slithered around him with the force of a fish drove, fuelling his hot rage.

He drowned into the white noise.

Time blended into the incoherent mix of the Void. His ears rang and split themselves as the soulful wail of the leviathan reverberated through the Void. The air itself seemed to hum and sing to an elusive, ancient song that thrummed through the space, possessing a meditative and centred quality to it. The whale emanated another grave call, the sonorous sound tinged with melancholy and bitter resignation.

It was _mourning_.

A distant memory stirred within his cranium.

The Void around him was whispering again.

Gentle. Tranquil. The warmth of a milkgiver.

It was telling him to move on.

"- _John_! JOHN! Please, _stop_ -" a pure and sweet voice, coated in distress, sheared through the trance. Innocent, fragile, _hurting_. A cub frightened by the lion, abhorring the display of brutality shown before its eyes.

The white noise threatened to drown him again.

He yelled as his head snapped back and collided against the wooden wall. A spark of black pain exploded between his eyes and he released a guttural growl. Gravity avariciously latched on to him and he transitioned into a state of free-fall. Primitive instincts kicked in and he coiled his left arm around his assailant's neck, locking his upper limb into a rigid state. The world around him shifted and rotated in a violent, clockwise shift as he fuelled some force on his legs, reversing their positions. His ribs quivered as a violent push to his solar plexus banished the air from his lungs. He retaliated, releasing his left arm from the chokehold and aiming his fisted hand atop his pinned assailant. The skin between his knuckles were sheared apart as the tenacious, bloodthirsty edges of his claws thrust out from their biological sheaths. The apex of one claw kissed the skin of his assailant's suprasternal notch. The skin dipped as the smaller man beneath him swallowed apprehensively, his gaze unblinking and widened under the influence of primitive fear. His quarry echoed the damage of his own shot nerves and it quivered with every breath taken in by the fragile chest underneath his arm. His skin stirred into awareness as the staccato beat of the smaller man's cardiac muscle thrummed beneath his sternum.

He counted each beat, each breath. His blood rushed past his ears, submerging him into the ocean of his own turmoil. The echoes of the wounded beast and the steadfast beats of its cardiac muscle synchronised with the other's. An infinity captured into a moment - and he could once again taste the tantalising influence of the Void seeping into his weary bones.

_"You hide it. You are so desperate, you would do anything. But you're just an animal, aren't you? Just like the rest of us. We kill, hunt, and cheat to live. But did we have any choice? Being an animal meant we could get out of this hell-hole. We sacrificed our rationality and our honour in exchange for the unforgettable taste of human warmth, or the tranquility felt by watching the rising sun peeking over the orange-streaked horizon beyond a point of speck. We did it because we wanted to hold them closer to our hearts, whether it's for one last time or for an eternity of a moment. Human instincts have never evolved beyond what our ancestors bestowed upon us. And it's alright. It's alright - because what else can we be?"_

He withdrew from his trance as the soft palm of someone's fragile skin crept up on his weathered cheekbones. The human warmth in it suffused and permeated his cold, stone-like heart. His staggered pulse transitioned into a more even beat and the tightness between his shoulders loosened. Smooth fingers were running up the slope of his chin, carding through the forest of stubble. The other hand ventured to his clenched fist, which was still perched atop the other's vulnerability, the claw unflinchingly still positioned against his neck. The other male brushed his thumb over the back of his tensed hand - patient and understanding.

His breath paused within his lungs.

These eyes. _Those eyes._

The entirety of the Cosmos, encapsulated gracefully in one package of DNA arrangement of a type that is singular in the universe. Genetic information encrypted at the quantum level, safeguarding against exploitation. A genetic sequence that he gets to see and keep only for _himself_ \- he gets to see it grow, change, and adapt to the myriad of tribulations that Life will throw their way. That singular genetic expression giving way to a peculiar phenotype - it's for _him_. One little, fragile strand of DNA - gave him all of _him_.

The same little fragile strand that gave him access to _his_ warm, beating human heart.

Where else could he have found such a unique and peculiar expression?

He loved it once, in a distant age.

 _Protect, protect, protect,_ the Void whispered.

The bloodlust of the adamantium receded.

A feeble exhale escaped his throat. It rattled at the back of his pharynx.

_Why did I hurt you?_

_You didn't deserve it._

_You deserve better._

_Better than someone like me._

_Why do I always hurt everyone?_

_What is wrong with me?_

". . . _John?_ " he muttered.

The soothing, baritone pitch flooded his senses, and he drank it in with the fervor of a drunkard. The timbre quality vibrated through his bones and permeated his marrows. The voice was tinged with a great degree of sorrow and personal agony. The gut-wrenching feeling of youthful yearning, rippling outwards with an arduous tenacity. He wanted to submerge himself in it.

He did this to _him_.

He was an animal.

He was all instinct.

He is a creature of great bloodlust.

He can't protect.

He's not made for it.

He hunts, kills, and feeds.

He doesn't sustain or nourish.

The beast takes and spits out nothing but a trail of bones.

_"But you want it, so . . . bad. You want it. You long for it. It is akin to oxygen for your battered lungs. You want to be selfish. But you won't allow yourself to. Because when you start -"_

He cannot stop.

He does not want to.

A warm touch placates the agitated beast within his mind. He leans into it.

His breathing will even itself out.

"Stay. Please," the voice whispered into the air with a feeble quality to it. " _Stay_."

He leans closer and hides his scarred visage into the side of the human neck that was pulsating with life. He flared his nostrils, drinking in the delicate scent. The tip of his nose grazed the length of the other's carotid artery. He pressed his lips into the skin, allowing an unsteady exhale to escape him. Long fingers carded through his hair, as if mesmerized at the miracle. A hand landed on his sternum, gentle but firm. With each breath he could feel the soft push of his breastbone against the palm of the other. Both oscillated to the rhythm and he had no heart to change it.

"It's alright."

The world was alright for now.

* * *

The flat is a slumbering serpent, and it is grating his shot nerves. His calf twitched and his foot jerked as the door downstairs slammed shut in an unsettling manner.The ringing echoed through his ear canals. He grimaced. The left hand was twitching madly again, and an upwards surge of agitation rolled around in his organs. Adrenaline was accumulating at the back of his throat, and it was distorting his auditory senses.

The air shifted, hissing lowly.

"What has brought you here?" came the soft inquiry.

He couldn't think of a proper answer.

The clinical nature of the inquiry still unsettled him.

He clenched his jaws, grunting with effort as he forced his fatigued muscles to clamp together, positioning him to stand. The muscle fibres in between his shoulder blades twitched and interlocked themselves. The wooden scent of deteriorating wood stung his nose as he shifted away from the weathered, wooden chair. The grizzled man raised his head and willingly met the gaze of his mirrored self.

The jagged scar grazing his left eye mocked him. A segment of his mouth was frozen in a state of a permanent snarl, uplifted in one corner, forming a mountainous peak that stood in constrast to the smooth lines of his unblemished forehead. His stubble was a map of coarseness and hostility, a paleontological evidence to his animalistic history. His irises were onyx-hued, a black hole that plunged unwary venturers into that point of infinite tidal forces within the heart of it.

What do they see?

"Cancer is gone," he spat out, the words twisted by the bearish tone of his vocal chords. It came out more like a series of growls, strident and unyielding. "It's gone."

He winced when his voiced reached his ears.

They took away that too. His human voice.

The man stayed quiet.

The claws slithered out, impatient and demanding.

He clenched his hands until the skin turned white.

Even without taking his eyes off his reflection, he could only smell nothing but concern leaking out into the space.

_Why?_

"I have a case you wouldn' want to pass up on. It's not just urgent, it's a case for disaster on a national level," he growled. The claws retreated. "I'll get straight to the point," he tore his eyes away from the mirror, eyeing down the seated man whose face is a stony configuration. "The government is funding illegal human experimentation in North America, and in here. Turning them into _mutants_. Although you probably guessed that on your own."

He chuckled bitterly. "Based on the nature of few successful outcomes, they are probably interested in engineering the latest breed of humans - mutants with military applications. As for the majority of test subjects - they all _died_ ," he narrowed his gaze. "And I doubt even the _upper management_ knows about this."

"Of course not," the man raised an eyebrow, stoic as ever. "Although for once we are ahead."

He bared his teeth. " _This_ \- this isn't some joking matter! I could care less about your personal rivalry with your brother! But real human lives - _human_ lives - are at stake here!" the claws slipped out again, hungry. "What the fuck do you want me to do -"

"You don't have to yell, you know," a subdued voice interjected.

The stream of vitriol died in his throat.

His knees throbbed and he sunk back to the chair.

He closed his eyes, sighing.

The clock was loud.

"I'll start the kettle," he said softly, moments later.

"I - _care_ a great deal about you, Logan," the man said, gently. "Please - don't push me away. I only seek to understand."

The veteran clenched his jaw, staring at the flickering flames lapping at the air in the fireplace. His hand was threatening to twitch madly again, and the crawling sensation returned with a vengeance. He flared his nostrils, exhaling violently.

What was he supposed to say?

"Bad shit always happened to me. You'd be wise to stay away, or you'll end up like me," he replied. He still hated the raucous quality of his voice. "Bitter, brutal, and unpredictable. The things they injected me with - the _things_ that made me who I am -" he spat, teeth bared at his reflection. "- they aren't things used to make a man sane. They were designed to heighten violent impulses. I'm only doing this for your own good."

"You're wrong about that," the man stated, with a foolish sense of conviction. " _You're wrong._ "

" _Don't_ push this, okay?" he growled. "Just - _don't_."

The silence was not a sign of submission.

* * *

The bitter taste of the alcohol streamed down his throat and he gulped it down like an oxygen-starved man. His left hand stopped twitching hours ago, although the spinning sensation centred around his gut was still present. Tension still presided over his shoulders, occasionally flashing little twinges of pain that made him grimace. The white flashes of searing hotness radiating through his lower back did not alleviate his short temper. His nerves were still shot from their earlier disagreement, and he ventured out of the flat to find some space with his tumultuous thoughts. He processed his problems better when he was knocked out of his head. Cigars and alcohol did their job and he became attached to those finicky, little beasts.

The atmosphere of the bar (or pub, as they now called here - damn it) was that mixture of raucous sounds and heaviness that just suited his mood right. The distant windows at the edges of the pub rattled with the force of the water droplets hailing down on the city, melancholic and sorrowful. Within the bar, the chinks of glass against glass was like hearing the voice of some long-lost childhood friend. He still doesn't know what to think, about this second home.

He likes to get trashed - pulled out of his head.

But it's probably a habit he shouldn't indulge in.

Shouldn't, wouldn't. Makes no difference.

People tell themselves lies all the time. Talks of improving, and stuff.

He has to live a little.

"Long night, eh, mate?" a man said to the left, settling in to the seat.

The veteran raised his shot glass, downing the rest.

The silence didn't deter the other man. "Well, it's almost that time of the year. Got anything special planned?"

"Why should I?" he replied bitterly. "Nothin' worth celebrating."

The bearish sound of his throat still unsettled him.

How can people afford to listen to him?

The man shrugged, clasping his hands together on the table. "Well, they say it's not about the presents - it's about that special people you have in your life. Don't you have that, back where you came from?"

Shit, this man is _one of those people_.

Yacking on forever. Might as well burn his ears off.

But his tongue was heavy.

Why is he hesitating?

". . . I grew up in a rough neighborhood, fella. Gangs and shit. There wasn't exactly a place for that, you know," he spat.

"But, you're here. That means you got somethin' keeping you here, ain't it?" the man asked.

The veteran scowled, glaring at the glass in his hands. "I'm an old man who's got nothin' to tell you, kid. I'm not - I don't have anything you might be interested in hearing. I don't have illustrious tales of war or anything. Leave me alone and bug someone else."

"You push everyone away because you don' like being exposed, innit? You think you're doing it for everyone else, but all you actually do is hurt 'em more," the man spat. "You're being a really selfish prat -"

The beast uncurled within his chest and lashed out with claws unsheathed. The softness in his body evaporated, leaving behind a solid gray husk of tumultuous thoughts. The addictive presence of his arctic resentment surged strong within his veins, inflaming his brain with the desire to shear, rend, and tear the closest victim in arm's reach. He curled his calloused fingers around the man's neck, drawing him closer to his face. A spike of satisfaction hit his stomach when the man yelped in astonishment, lanky arms scrambling against the hand around his throat.

"I don't know who the _fuck_ do you think you are, but in case it hasn't registered in your thick skull - _I'm not a guy you should mess with_ \- you think you are so high and mighty, thinking you got a right to lecture me about how I treat my family," he bared his teeth against the other man's widened eyes. "- but you have done no shit in your life, kid. You got nothin' to show for it. I got guts, and I admit my mistakes when I make them. You haven't had to feel the responsibility that weighs on your shoulders when you know that your family relies on you for their survival and food. I _had_ to do that. I have lived a hard life but it's the only one I _have_. So, don't embarass yourself by coming to my face and talking to me about _responsibility_."

He leaned closer. The fire in his heart was blazing. "Don't talk to me about responsibility, not when you've got a problem yourself that you need to fix, _kid_. A kid has no business telling grown men what they need to do."

"You haven't seen him like I've seen him! You _abandoned_ him, and you haven't turned your eye to him in the last year and half he has been here!" the other man screeched, thrashing in his grip. "You _think_ you have it so easy, but you was forgettin' that he had problems of 'is own too!"

" _It wasn't my choice everyone else left!_ " he howled, digging his digits into the neck. "They all _left_! They _tossed_ me aside! Made some fucking joke out of my grief! My _sickness_! I wouldn't put it past you all that you probably _knew_ about my sickness until I knew about it!" he released his grip, hurling the man away from his face. The lanky kid stumbled back, sputtering. "It's not even a question of what he deserves. You're both so fucking out of your heads I don't even know how to deal with it. You don't deserve _anything from me_ \- the world doesn't give you handouts just because you think you deserve it. What will happen, will happen. I've made my peace with that. Things won't change just because you _wish_ it to change. You don't deserve anything you hadn't _worked_ for."

"You're not even trying! -"

"You civilian folks and your inflated sense of importance!" he growled, clenching his fist. His hands are shaking. "I am not obligated to forgive you all. You showed me that you didn't have the guts to stay and tough out the stormy weather when things got a bit too hard for you. But it doesn't matter. _What goes around comes around._ "

"That's enough, folks. You, get the fuck out of my pub. This man 'ere has done nothin' to you. I don' want to see your fucking mug in this place again. You should be thankin' 'im for his service instead of gangin' on a veteran like that. You kids are a disgrace to this country, treatin' a soldier like that," the bartender hissed. " _Logan_ , sit down and cool your head, mate. I'm sorry. My patrons are usually friendlier during this time of the year. Jus' so you know, mate, everyone 'ere is grateful for your service. Don' let anybody think otherwise."

That was laying it on a bit thick, but he grunted in agreement.

" _You're not leavin' this place until I know you're sorry -"_ the man sneered.

The beast _howled_.

Mahogany wood fissured and exploded into splinters and broken pieces as the creature lunged at the offending enemy, spittle flying out of its muzzle as it tackled the other man to the nearest table. The beast clawed at the other man's chest, growling in gratification when a pained yelp resounded in the vicinity. His left arm cried in pain as the unrelenting edges of the adamantium beta sheared through muscle, his nerves firing as white agony coursed through the length of his arm. The curved edges of the titanium-hued claws sang as they emerged from hiding, the talons curved menacingly over the other man's cranium. His ears pricked as distressed yells and alarmed cried flooded the entire pub. His shoulders flexed and tensed as it readied for the onslaught, irises dilating with hostility.

 _"Look at you now, Logan. When something goes wrong, you go all animal on people. It's your last line of defense. You couldn't afford to be seen as weak - oh no, you just couldn't. I even doubt there is any human left in that brawn. Where do you go, when all is not well?" the clown jeered. "The serum formula, you should know by now, only further enhances the traits that you stand for at your core. I wonder, what is it that the great Wolverine stands for? Basal desires? The ugly side of human bloodthirst? The sleeping potential of destruction mankind is capable of? What will it be? You need to control yourself, my dear Logan._ "

" _Look at you!_ Look at yourself! Look at yourself a good deal!" the other man yelled. "Is this how you act, how you conduct yourself when things aren't great? Thrash around, makin' a mess of things?! People need you! _He_ needs you! You are lookin' more like an animal everyday! It fuckin' _hurts_ him everytime he looks at you! He _loves_ you! And he knows you aren't doing great! But you still _push him away_!"

Is that all he was, an animal -

"So, _you_ tell me how you was going to fix this! Fuck your self pity! Fuck you and your issues!"

Each second, the volcanic wrath was more distracting.

The force at which it pumps through his veins.

It gave him life.

It gave him focus.

It _beckoned_ to him.

The beast was still baying for blood.

The sun hasn't touched its warmth-starved hide.

It was entitled to it.

It deserved this - this moment of utter destruction.

The pain has been hidden away for too long.

But it will not allow it to control him.

It _cannot_ control him.

He is through being a convoluted mass of experiences and thoughts.

He is _done_.

The beast snarled before turning around and scampering away.

* * *

The beast wandered for so long.

Bereft of company, melancholic, and embittered.

Aimless and adrift.

Its howls of misery unheard by the cacophony of the world.

The beast learned that love was the destructive force within.

It consumed and laid waste to all around it.

It could not be contained.

It obeyed no known physical law.

And thus, it sought to repress it.

And in repressing it, it found - strength, independence, dominance.

But in doing so, it lost - the human spirit.

Engulfed in primitive instincts, it knows no other companion except Rage.

It runs with it as the beast runs through valleys and forests and the plains with overflowing streams.

It was a pack mate.

Pack mates do not Betray.

But it does not satisfy the Void.

The Void that threatens to one day consume his world.

And it is because of this Void, that the beast hunts still.

On the road, on this eternal quest.

Searching for something it doesn't even know the name to.

But search it will, for it knows nothing else.


End file.
